A Man Cannot Control His Dreams
by UnexpectedNudity
Summary: Being re-edited. What if Harry had delved a little deeper into Snape's pensieve? What else is the infamous Potions Master seeking to hide from the Boy Who Lived? WARNING: Contains sexual situations of the slash variety. A little plot, mostly sexin
1. Occlumency and a Plan

1

A Plan

"Protego!" Harry yelled as he felt Snape probe into his mind. "Protego!" Yet he may as well have been shouting in Pig Latin for all the good it did.

"Useless, Potter, as usual." Severus Snape stood at ease before the Gryffindor, seeming to almost enjoy himself as he sifted through Harry's surface memories. Quidditch matches, exams, the Granger brat droning on and on… his Aunt and Uncle. "Such a mundane mind…" he delved deeper, violating. It was easy, like sinking into butter. No resistance whatsoever. Images darted past – growing more personal the longer he pushed.

Harry, weeping alone as a child. Burning with hatred of the young Malfoy, of Snape, The dark lord, of himself. Rocked with anger at his murdered parents for leaving him. Being struck down by the great hand of his uncle and a thousand petty injustices. Watching Sirius die.

"No!" Harry's cry broke into his perusal of the young man's pain and passion. "Stop! PROTEGO!" This time Severus felt a slight push. It was weak, like a child demanding something of his mother. Laughable.

"Almost," he taunted.

He saw Harry's flesh split by Wormtail's knife, Diggory collapsing in a lifeless heap. Deeper still – Images of his late parents, loving Sirius as a father, feelings of guilt, knowing, _knowing_ that he'd killed his own godfather- Then suddenly, a most intense surge of rage. Almost a solid wall in Severus' path.

Harry collapsed onto his knees with another, desperate,

"GET OUT! PROTEGO!" At last, and most unexpectedly, Snape was expelled. He stumbled back a fraction in surprise at the sheer force thrown up in his face. Potter was kneeling on the ground, head hanging, hand braced on the stone floor as if he'd spent everything to achieve the eviction. "Get out… out out out…" his voice was weak, thick with pain, harsh from shouting and exertion.

"Get up, Potter. You are not a _child_." 'Child' Severus spat out like a mouthful of poison. "Again."

Harry stared up at the dark figure, exhausted, but furious beyond anything he'd ever felt before. Any angrier, and his vision would surely go red. Their eyes met for only a moment, but it was more than enough fir Snape to recognize the absolute, overwhelming hatred in Potter's eyes. The emotion was hot and deep like a fissure in the earth.

Severus cleared his throat. "Again, Mr. Potter." He raised his hand to begin again, but before he'd even parted his lips for the incantation, Harry had shouted at him, brandishing his wand like a sword.

"_Legillimens_!" In an instant Harry was swamped by foreign memories, thoughts, and emotions, and Snape, shocked at Harry's sheer audacity, took all of a quarter minute to expel the brat. It was plenty of time, however, for Harry to become entirely disquieted.

Nearly every memory, every tableaux that flashed by…was of him.

Harry, sifting powder into a cauldron. Harry, sitting at the Gryffindor table. Harry, sleepily turning the pages of a book in the library. Harry, playing Quidditch, laughing, bleeding, flying. Harry, Harry, Harry, Harry, Harry.

Harry, still kneeling on the unforgiving stone, toppled backwards as he was thrown bodily from Snape's mind, landing hard on his hands. The potion's master loomed over him, looking far too calm considering what Harry had just done. That, more than anything, made Harry's skin prickle in fear.

"I think, Mr. Potter," Snape said coolly, "that we are done for tonight."

"Yes. Yes Sir. I'll – I'll go then." Harry scrambled to his feet, snatched his bag hastily from the desk, and practically through himself from the room in his rush to escape.

"That's fuckin' weird, mate," Ron said.

"Well, I mean, He does see Harry rather often, doesn't he?" Hermione reasoned in response, not looking up from her planner, in which she'd been meticulously recording her reading schedule for the better part of an hour.

"Yeah, but why's he been watching Harry eat and practice Quidditch and what else…"

"Harry _is_ the savior of the wizarding world, Ron. I'd wager a lot of people've got him on their minds."

"It's just creepy that's all I'm saying." Ron grumbled, giving up on his reading. Harry just hummed in response. "I mean, a bit suspicious don't you think?"

"Ron, you _know_ what Dumbledore said – "

"Yeah yeah I know 'Snape has more than redeemed himself.' Still."

"One thing that's really bothering me…" Harry started, not really listening to the pair at all.

"What, mate? More than Snape stalking you like some sort of freaky –"

"Ron!" Hermione cut off what was sure to turn into a bit of a tirade. "What's been bothering you, Harry?"

"It's just that – " he leaned toward them conspiratorially. "Well, before every lesson I'm sure he puts some of his thoughts away into a pensieve. He must think I don't know what it is. And… well what if…"

"He's hiding something from you!" Ron chimed in excitedly.

"Ron, I'm sure it's just personal memories he's putting away."

"C'mon, Hermione at least see the possibility that he's got some sort of secret about Harry locked away in that greasy head of his," Ron insisted. "Who _knows_ what the git's got hidden in there." He shuddered. But Harry had already tuned them out. He'd made up his mind. He had to know what was in that pensieve. That, one brief look into Snape's mind had him wanting to see more. He wanted… he needed to know.

Severus could hardly believe what had just happened. It must have been Potter's absolute rage that had given such a novice attempt at Legillimecy such force. The strength of the boy's presence in his mind… he shouldn't think of it. Better to reconsider his earlier decision to keep… certain memories apart from his mind only during Potter's hours of practice. Perhaps he should remove them entirely… for safety's sake.

He moved over to the cabinet which held his most useful possession: the pensieve.

'_Fortunate_,' he thought as he poked through the shimmering memories in the stone vessel, accounting for each one, '_that Potter is too poor a student to know what a pensieve is_.'

"Harry this is not a good idea." She'd been saying that for nearly a week now.

"Lay off him, Hermione! I for one want to know what Snape's been hiding. Maybe we'll find out once and for all what side he's on!"

"We know what side he's – "

"Guys!" Harry cut them off. "Look, I didn't ask you to help me, so just let me do this. Slytherin's got Quidditch practice right now and Snape is _always_ there watching. It'll be fine." Hermione shot him a disapproving look, but mercifully didn't say another word.

"Go get'em mate!" Ron called to him as Harry turned to go, swinging his cloak about his shoulders and disappearing.

He met no major problems on the trip down to the dungeons, and technically he would have been totally entitled to be roaming the halls even if he'd been visible. It was early evening, and a time when, though all students were allowed to be up and about, most were relaxing in their common rooms digesting their dinners, getting a start on homework, or socializing with their housemates.

The potion's classroom was unlocked and deserted. Snape's office was, of course, locked, but responded very well to Sirius' lock-picking knife.

"Well," he said, inside the familiarly dank and sinister room. "That was easy."


	2. Within the Mind

2

Within the Mind

In an ornately carven bureau with a windowed front Harry easily spotted the stone basin he'd first seen swirling unobtrusively in Dumbledore's office. This lock did not relent as easily as that on the door. The glass, however, vanished without complaint, and, minding the heft, he pulled the pensieve from its shelf. The silver substance within swirled with placid portent and Harry found himself suddenly nervous. He took a deep breath and dropped his cloak to the floor.

What would he uncover here? The question frightened him, but not half as much as it drew him in. Hand steady, more steady than he would have thought possible, he touched the tip of his wand to the gently shimmering haze of memory. It swirled in tumult for a few seconds, before clearing to an image of the Hogwarts grounds in spring splendor. He held his breath – was this it? But no… there he saw young Severus Snape walking in solitude. Harry himself hadn't even been born yet. He tapped the surface again and it splintered into a new scene. Here he saw a masked Deatheater held at wandpoint by Lucius Malfoy. His interest was piqued as he saw Malfoy Senior jerk the mask away before slapping the man across the face. His head whipped to the side, and when he turned back Harry saw that this too was a younger Snape. Lucius grabbed his jaw. But this wasn't what Harry'd come to see… he tapped the memory again. The next image was black as pitch. Harry watched for a moment before the scene was split with a green flash of light. He passed this by as well. The fourth memory struck him right away as different. The colors weren't quite right this time… they looked strangely washed out and stark, like a very old photograph. Harry leaned closer, just in time to see himself standing in the pensieve's depths.

"Me…" Harry murmured. With one last glance behind him at the empty office, he plunged his face into the memory. A moment of vertigo and-

"Mr. Potter." Merlin, he was caught! Harry Spun to face Snape, excuse already on his lips, before he saw that no, he hadn't been discovered at all.

Memory-Harry stepped sullenly into the room, and set his book bag down on a desk. "I see you managed to remember your detention this time."

"Yes Sir," he said. Harry gaped. This was far and away more bizarre than anything he'd done in Dumbledore's pensieve. Looking at "himself" in the potion's room with Snape while he was in a Snape's pensieve in the potions room...

"You'll begin by alphabetizing this storage cabinet." Snape pulled the cabinet open, revealing a veritable jungle of haphazard bottles and jars. "I assume you are familiar with the alphabet?"

A muscle in Memory-Harry's jaw flexed at the jab. Harry watched, agog, as "he" nodded curtly and knelt to the task. This seemed rather mundane… but something wasn't right here. Harry didn't remember having served this detention.

Professor Snape stood by and watched Memory-Harry sift through the bottles for a moment, before sweeping indifferently up to his desk. There he sat, pulling a stack of parchment forward for grading. Several minutes passed, silent but for the rustle and scratch of parchment and quill, and the tinkling of glass in the cabinet.

"This couldn't possibly be it," Harry wondered aloud. "This is just a detention!" Why would Snape ferret this memory away? It didn't make any –

CRASH

Harry jumped as his memory-counterpart slipped and dropped a bottle, where it shattered, scattering hundreds of tiny seeds across the stones. Memory-Harry seemed frozen in shock. The sound of Snape's chair scraping back from the desk, however, made his eyes snap up from the ruined glass.

In a moment, Snape was looming over him. With a deft flick of his wand the seeds collected themselves and funneled back into the bottle as it too flew back together.

"S-sorry," Memory-Harry stuttered, standing. Harry raised his eyebrows: "He" seemed very nervous. At least, he didn't like to think he always stuttered that much when loomed over.

"Not to worry, Mr. Potter," Snape drawled. "Nothing another detention can't fix."

Memory-Harry only winced at this "reassurance." Harry shifted further into the room to better see what was happening. At least _something_ was happening.

"My my," Snape continued. "Don't you enjoy detentions, Potter? I'd have though differently considering how many you land yourself in."

Harry snorted in derision. It's not like he ever actually did anything warranting –

The clinking of jostled bottles shook Harry from his disdain as Memory-Harry's back hit the shelves he'd been stocking. Snape's hand was on his chest, pushing him up against them.

"Perhaps you need to learn better respect, hmm?" Harry was agape. What in Merlin's name was going on here? Memory-Harry swallowed, shifting back against the shelves. His hand knocked a cluster of bottles aside as he gripped the wood.

"S-sorry," he stuttered again, the picture of nervous submission.

"What are you doing?!" Harry yelled at the pair. "Give him a good knee to the bollocks!" But he couldn't be heard within the pensieve, of course. And when Snape tilted Memory-Harry's head up with the tip of his wand, the figment's hands clenched tight on the edges of a shelf, and Harry couldn't do a thing. Memory-Harry made a tiny, throaty noise and cast his eyes down toward Snape's wand hand.

"Sir?" he managed.

Despite an overwhelming desire to do so, Harry couldn't seem to deny the disturbingly erotic nature of the scene before him. What could possibly explain this memory?

Snape drew the tip of his wand down Memory-Harry's throat, drawing a sharp hitch of breath, and suddenly Harry remembered the striking quality of the colors, and something clicked. This wasn't a memory, this was a dream. _Snape's_ dream. And Snape was pushing yet closer, Dream-Harry's throat working in panic as the potion-stained hand at his chest closed in the fabric, pulling him up to meet Snape in a searing, brutal kiss. Harry's heart nearly stopped in his chest at what he was seeing. Several more bottles toppled from the shelves and smashed at their feet as Dream-Harry's hands slid from the woodwork and grabbed frantically at Snape's shoulders. Not missing a beat, Snape slid his wand back in his robes, thus freeing his hands to seize Dream-Harry's wrists and force them back against the cabinet.

Harry felt lightheaded with shock as he saw _himself_ arch up against the potions master and moan in apparent response to being trapped.

He couldn't look away. Not when Snape pulled "him" away from the ruined potion stores and pushed him down onto one of the classroom's many tables, knocking a cauldron to the floor. Not when Dream-Harry's robe was discarded, his jumper pulled over his head, his shirt torn asunder. Not when the last shreds of his clothing pooled at their feet, nor when Snape hissed incantations into his ear, making him claw the table and hook his legs around black-clad hips. Not when Dream-Harry's knee was hooked over Snape's shoulder. Not until-

"Enjoying yourself?" The words were hissed into his ear like venting steam as a hand clamped down on his shoulder. Harry had just enough time to glimpse a pair of fierce black eyes before the scene was whirled away. Thrown back into the real dungeon off-kilter, he fell at once into Snape's chest as his balance failed. Harry leapt back as if burned, his eyes wide, and face flushed.

"You!" he said, voice loud and accusatory, but shaken. "You dreamed that?!" Snape looked at him stonily. "What is wrong with you?!"

Severus just quirked an eyebrow.

"A man cannot control his dreams, Mr. Potter. You above all should know that." Harry shook his head in debilitating disbelief.

"WHAT? Is that all you have to say? You're sick!" Snape looked pointedly between Harry's legs.

"Am I?" he asked quietly. Harry felt the hairs on his arms stand on end, shocked to recognize his own arousal. He took a step back, nearly tripped, and grabbed his cloak from the floor. Turned. Ran. But he couldn't get out fast enough to miss Snape's parting words:

"Detention Potter! For infiltrating my office!"


	3. Beside the Mind

To his utter horror, Harry found both Ron and Hermione waiting for him in the common room when he returned, leaving him no time at all to think of a suitable lie. Ron, excited, leapt to his feet when he saw Harry appear.

"Hey Harry! Wow, you look spooked. What was it?" He was practically bouncing.

"N-nothing," Harry murmured back. "It was nothing." Ron's face fell.

"What'dya mean nothing?"

Hermione chimed in from behind a textbook:

"You see, Harry? I told you it wasn't worth it."

"Yeah," Harry chuckled half-heartedly. "Yeah you did."

"Well there you go." She returned to her reading contentedly. There was a strained pause while Ron considered starting a row with Hermione, but Harry recognized it and cut in.

"I'm, uh, going to go take a shower."

"Right, Mate. I'd feel greasy too after digging through that head." Again, Harry forced a laugh:

"yeah," before making a hasty retreat. That had been too easy, he knew. He knew too that he'd have to come up with a better story to satisfy Ron later. Now, however, was not the time. Now, he just really needed to stand under a hot stream of water. For perhaps the next hour or two. Or three. Maybe until he died of hunger.

Snape seated himself numbly at his desk. That… that scene had been exactly what he'd been trying to avoid. Stupid of him, really, to think that Potter's interest wouldn't have been piqued by what he'd seen during practice. Who wouldn't want to know more of another's obsession? Stupid too, to think that Harry wasn't foolhardy enough to simply burst into his quarters. Stupid. And yet…

The whelp's reaction had been unexpected, to say the least.

Once he'd seen Potter's cloak on the floor beside his desk, Snape had known what had been done, and dove immediately into the memory. Stepping up behind Harry was easy enough… Potter's attention had been focused totally on the image of their coupling. And, if he wasn't mistaken, the boy had been warmly flushed with color, His eyes wide and dilated. Unexpected indeed.

5th Year Potions was his last class before lunch come Monday. And for once, he was looking forward to it.

"Ingredients are on the blackboard. Instructions may be found on page 238 of the text. You have one hour. Begin."

Snape gave the class his usual amount of warning time once they were seated: none. A collective sigh whooshed out from the students among a clatter of knives and measuring spoons.

"Never gives us a break, does he?" Hermione whispered. Ron and Harry looked at her incredulously. "What? I don't _have_ to want to brew a Befuddlement Draught. I mean, for goodness sake what a ridiculous potion!"

"Silence Please!" Snape's smooth voice shocked them quiet.

As usual, once the students had settled into a rhythm of adding, stirring, and heating, Snape set out to throw them off balance. He hovered behind each one, making disapproving noises and clearing his throat. Passing the Gryffindor Trio's table, he saw with certain satisfaction the tensing in Harry's shoulders.

Harry dropped his pairing knife with a clatter and a hitch of breath at the soft brush of fingertips across the back of his neck. His head snapped to look behind him, but Snape had already passed on.

"You alright?" Ron whispered. Harry retrieved his knife slowly, ignoring his Goosebumps.

"Yeah," he replied. '_No_,' he thought.

Snape didn't touch him again for the remainder of the class. Harry even started to think he may have imagined the slight contact; which somehow, was an even more worrying option.

When Snape finally called for their potions, a little over an hour later, Harry managed to wheedle Ron into turning in the both of their samples. For a few moments Harry even thought he was home free, as he packed up his bag and cleared away his supplies without incident. Perhaps he was being ignored. He was mere feet from freedom when:

"Mr. Potter, a word, if you please." The icy, rumbling tones sent chills up his spine, and Ron and Hermione looked back sympathetically from the door. They didn't hesitate longer than a moment, though, before leaving him there.

Harry kept his eyes on the rough-hewn floor as he approached the front of the classroom, but then, he didn't need to see it to feel Snape's dark, scrutinizing eyes on him like a heavy hand. He stopped his uneasy advance when the Potion's Master's boots just entered his field of vision. "I believe we need to discuss your coming detention." Harry looked up at this. He hadn't thought Snape'd been _serious_, not after…

"Sir?" he asked, a little incredulously.

"Yes, Potter. Your detention. Friday evening preceding your 'remedial potions,' perhaps?" Harry was astounded.

"Professor Snape I hardly think that's appropriate!" he blurted.

Severus looked at him for one, calculative moment, considering the boundary he was about to cross. It was a very clear line. Stepping away from his desk, he approached the Gryffindor slowly, and reached out a hand.

"Oh, don't you?" he asked, seizing Harry's jaw with long, slender fingers. "Perhaps you'd prefer to serve your detention right now?" There it was. Crossed. Harry's mouth worked wordlessly for a moment.

"I-" his skin flushed hot where Snape's hand gripped him and, unbidden, his mind flashed back to the dream he'd witnessed: Snape's slim hands around his wrists, his shoulders, his throat. He felt a shudder rush through him, and it took him a moment to regain eye contact. However, as soon as he did, as soon as he saw the look on Snape's face, he realized that those thoughts were not his own. He jerked his head back from the Potions Master's grasp. "Stop it!"


	4. Cruel Distraction

Snape's eyes were smooth and cold.

"Stop what?" he asked. Harry felt his anger flare up at the feigned innocence.

"Making me feel things! Stop!" The Potions Master's lips curled up in a smirk and he stepped yet closer.

"I may supply the images, Mr. Potter, but the reactions are your own." Harry flinched away from his hand. Suddenly he was scared. Not of Snape, no. Not of the situation. But of one idea, one question.

"Liar!" What if he was telling the truth?

"Believe what you will, Mr. Potter." With one last piercing gaze that shot down Harry's spine like fire, Snape turned away. "You may go."

The next day's potion's class was, if possible, even more excruciating. The potion they were attempting that class required an excess of precision and concentration, both qualities that Harry tended to lack. And, of course, Snape seemed to have it in mind to distract the Gryffindor even more. Every so often Harry would be forcefully reminded of the dream he'd witnessed. Everything brought it to mind. The bottles holding their ingredients. The swish of Snape's robes. The work tables. and Snape's voice chastising them. Everything.

When the class was nearly half over, Harry's potion was an entirely inappropriate shade of chartreuse, while beside him Hermione's was the suggested tranquil ice-blue.

"Your Mugwart cubes were really more like slices, Harry, I'm sure that's why," Hermione whispered sagely, as if he really wanted to hear about his geometric deficiencies.

"Thanks, Hermione, I'll try harder next time," he hissed back, Immediately feeling guilty for his tone when his friend sniffed indignantly and turned back to her own potion. Resigning himself to no marks for the day, Harry began to poke irritatedly at the mixture, which was rapidly thickening to the texture of wet cement. He let his mind wander, and, of course, it could wander no place but one.

He felt like he'd already replayed the scene a thousand times. The image of Snape holding him down while he arched up and moaned seemed imprinted on his eyelids. It was an intoxicating tableau. He could almost feel Snape's slender hand on his chest, pushing him back, or the dangerous touch of a wand-tip on his throat. Again, he tried to imagine just how it would feel to be pinned immobile while Snape kissed him.

So engrossed was he in the daydream, that he failed to notice when the end his quill wandered too close to the fire beneath his cauldron and ignited.

"Mr. Potter I believe you are aflame," Snape commented from beside the chalkboard. It took Harry a moment or two of shock to realize he was being literal. And, of course, he immediately panicked and flung the pen to the floor. Hermione extinguished it with a tidy jet of water over the collective laughs of the class. "Do try to concentrate," Snape continued drolly, and Harry glared back at him, trying to put all his thoughts on the matter into one piercing look. The Potions Master simply quirked an eyebrow.

Harry lagged behind when the rest of the class scurried away to their next classes. Once the last had gone, he approached the front of the room angrily.

"This has to stop!" he said, pointing an accusatory finger. Snape turned to look at him.

"I believe, young man, that you are overestimating my role in your inability to concentrate." His words were innocuous – nothing a teacher couldn't say to a student under different circumstances, but his tone… His tone was undercut by a smooth current of domination and craving. And Harry could feel it like something physical.

"Do you?" he replied scathingly, overcompensating the weakness in his knees and the heat under his skin with bravado. Snape brushed chalk absently from his hands.

"Did you feel my influence there?" he asked, moving to stand before Harry, looming over him just a little bit more. Harry fought the desire to step back. Now was not the time to cower!

"What does that mean?" Harry demanded in response. But, horribly, he thought he might already know. Snape withdrew his wand and, twirling it deftly between his fingers, made Harry's boldness falter.

Harry took a step back. He'd put himself in a situation, he could tell already.

"My magical hand, Mr. Potter." Snape nimbly slipped his wand back into his sleeve and out of sight. "You should know what it feels like by now. Think for a moment: Was I manipulating your mind?" He touched briefly at Harry's thoughts, as if reminding the boy just what he was talking about. He felt a brief surge of burgeoning panic as he brushed through, along with a jumble of intriguing, fractured thoughts. Harry shook his head as if to clear him away like cobwebs.

"No…" he said slowly, resisting the knowledge. "I didn't… It didn't feel like that."

"Then I'm afraid to say it's you and you alone supplying… whatever daydreams

currently distract you." Snape's eyes flicked purposefully to the table nearest them. Harry recognized it at once. And at that same instant his mind was inundated with the most explicit of images. He could hardly notice, then, when Snape circled to stand behind him.

"That, however," Snape murmured silkily, sliding a hand into unruly black hair, "_is_ me." Harry knew it already. He could feel Snape's subtle influence funneling the thoughts into his head, and with it, his own response as it flickered to life within him. He felt drugged, not in control of himself, as Snape flexed the fingers in his hair. "Don't try to deny what you want," the man continued, voice dropped low. "Your mind is chaos with it."

Harry couldn't muster a response. He did want what Snape offered. He couldn't believe it, but he did.

Snape observed him closely, relishing the feel of the hair between his fingers, yet reminding himself not to let Harry's shallow, aroused breathing or flushed skin effect him too much. After all, he had another class in… Oh, 5 minutes. Snape pulled his hand from the Gryffindor's hair, and mind at once, but with regret.

"Mr. Potter I doubt your other professors tolerate tardiness more than I do." Harry turned slowly to look at him, still dazed from the deluge of fantasies Snape had invoked.

"I- I don't have t-" he started, but Snape cut him off.

"I also, have a schedule to keep. It would do you well to keep up with your own." He could have been a parent scolding a child, but there was the subtle reminder of Harry's detention lurking within the words, and Harry's stomach clenched.

"Right," he said. "I'll be," he cleared his throat nervously, "late for class. I'll… go."

At the door Harry hesitated. Took a breath. He should just go.

"Sir?" he asked to Snape's back. "What, um, what did you say to me?"

"Excuse me?"

"Er, in the m- the dream. That I saw."

Snape's mouth twitched at Harry's obvious nervousness. The boy truly wore his heart on his sleeve. Normally, this was a quality that Snape looked at with disdain, but he did find it useful, to know with one look how easily Harry could be swayed. But Potter's inquiry was a demonstration for another day.

"Another time, Mr. Potter." Second-years began to trickle in past Harry, who, finally realizing the time, hurried away.


	5. Derailing

He didn't sleep that night. He was wound far too tightly to do much more than lie on top of his covers and try not to think too hard about what exactly was putting the tension in him. Twice, he got up from bed, and twice he thought better of any ideas he'd had and turned back. Where did he think he'd go? To the library? The kitchens? God forbid, to Snape's quarters? Each time, then, he lay back down on his bed, and stewed and stressed and felt as the tension twisted tighter and tighter.

"Oy! Harry!"

Harry jumped as he was rapped sharply on the head with a fork.

"Yeah, what?" he snapped back at Ron. The redhead looked a little hurt.

"I was just asking why you weren't a little happier today," he mumbled. Harry pushed his food around. Why in Merlin's name should he be?

"Why should I be?"

"Why, mate? Because it's Friday! And on Friday there's…" he paused dramatically, clearly wanting Harry to finish the sentence. Harry didn't. Luckily, however, Hermione chose that moment to plop down across from them and chime in.

"No Potions, I believe," she said.

"Oh," Harry mumbled back. But it didn't really matter. After all, he might not have to deal with potions, but he still had to deal with Snape. That night he not only had their scheduled Occlumency lesson, but detention as well. Just the thought made the knot in his stomach tighten feverishly.

"Ron, Harry has his "tutoring" tonight. You're just rubbing it in."

Harry drifted through the rest of his day, unable to concentrate on any of his schoolwork. Once or twice he even thought he saw the edge of a black robe whip around a corner as he passed.

"I've lost my mind," he murmured to himself.

After picking distractedly at his dinner, Harry found himself in front of the mirror in his dorm, fussing with his hair. The moment he realized he was trying to improve his appearance, he forced his hands to his sides. What did he think he was doing, anyway? He had detention with The Bat for Merlin's sake. But the tightness he'd been trying to breathe around for two days said this definitely wasn't going to be lines. It might be punishment, yes, but it certainly wouldn't be scouring cauldrons. He took a deep breath. Started to smooth his jumper with his hands, but thought better of the gesture. He needed to get a grip. He shook his head forcefully and looked hard at his reflection.

"Stop it," he said. "Get a grip on yourself."

"What's that mate?" Ron said as he dropped his book bag beside the door. Harry jumped and spun to face him.

"Oh! Hey... I was just, you know," Harry stumbled over an explanation. "Talking to myself?" Ron gave him a look.

"Right. Hey didn't you get detention tonight?"

"Yeah, I've got to be there in a quarter hour or so." Harry tugged nervously at his shirt collar. Ron gave him an encouraging smile and thump on the back.

"Don't worry, mate! You've lived through detention with the old Dementor before, you'll do it again!" Good ol' Ron, always looking for the silver lining.

"Yeah, sure, thanks Ron."

When he finally got up the courage to leave his room, the trip down to the dungeons seemed to take an eternity. The damp chill of the place was oppressive and Harry felt the thick knot of tension in his chest jerk tighter with every step. He mumbled to himself as he descended the stone staircases, mostly nonsense reflections on just what a bad, bad idea this was, and how he should just turn back now and go to sleep. He could just leave and take a double detention with someone else or- Sooner than he'd hoped, he was face to face with the heavy, worn doors to the potions classrooms. He raised his hand to knock: once, hesitated, twice, hesitated, finally, with massive force of will, his fist made contact. From within, Harry heard a dim but unmistakable,

"Enter." Stealing himself, internally cursing his heart to shut the hell up for the love of Merlin, Harry did as he was bid. His eyes dropped automatically to the floor as Snape looked up from a stack of papers.

The potion's master was honestly surprised by the sheer obviousness of Harry's nervous vulnerability. The boy was practically acting like prey. How absolutely ideal.

"Cauldrons, Mr. Potter," he said dismissively, gesturing to a pile of soiled ironware. "No magic." Harry hesitated briefly, clearly confused by the mundane task – one he'd had to perform often during his early years at Hogwarts. The Potions Master held in a cruel smirk as the boy sat uncertainly.

Snape let him work for the better part of an hour, then, knowing that it would only unsettle the Gryffindor if he were left stewing in his own thoughts for a while. He found himself unable to grade more than a few essays as Harry worked, though; mind far too occupied to pay them much attention. He mulled over possible ways of approaching the boy, searching for the most surprising, the most unbalancing. He looked up periodically, mindful not to let his detainee see him watching, and catalogued the details of the Gryffindor.

Harry's shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbows, his fingertips and knuckles an angry red from the harsh cleaning solution. His face was warmly colored with exertion and set in concentration, and his hair stood at attention where he'd run his fingers through. And, Snape noted with surprise, he was nearly finished with his penultimate cauldron.

Severus made a fast decision. Just as Harry was pushing the clean cauldron away with the others and leaning down to retrieve the last, he slipped from behind his desk, all too close to Harry in a flash. But before the Gryffindor could flinch away or even react at all more than a brief spike of panic, the Potions Master had grabbed his wrist where he held the last piece of his task.

"I believe that one can wait," Snape said.


	6. Trapped and Twisted

Harry's eyes were wide with fear when they darted up from his hand, and Snape noted with satisfaction the distinct dilation to his pupils that could only signify desire. Nevertheless, the boy tried to free himself, twisting and pulling, but failing.

"Don't – don't touch me - " he managed, backing up the mere inches between his back and the edge of the work surface. Snape merely tightened his grip and twisted, forcing the boy around, and pressing him up against the edge of the table. Pinning Harry's arm he felt the trapped fingers twitch ineffectually. Itching for the wand stowed in his pocket, no doubt. "Stop," Harry insisted, voice lacking conviction, though hoarse and clearly terrified. Snape pushed hotly up against the boy's back, breath ghosting over the back of his neck.

"Frightened, Potter?" he asked, voice purposefully gravelly and low. Oh yes, he was familiar with Potter's recent reactions to his voice. He teased a brief flash of fantasy into Harry's mind, and the breath shuddered out of the body beneath him with a throaty whine. Snape nuzzled into the hair behind Harry's ear, just daring to bite at the skin there. "You needn't be," he continued, to the satisfying sound of shallow, gasped breathing. "I won't hurt you." Harry's trapped arm and shoulder flexed, and a tortured, rasped word escaped him:

"Liar."

Snape couldn't have suppressed his smirk if he'd wanted to. With his free hand, he glided his fingers into Harry's hair and fisted them, jerking the raven head back and baring the pale throat. Harry gasped. He'd never felt so vulnerable – never been so hard.

"Talking back to me, whelp?" Snape growled, and twisted Harry's trapped arm a little further, forcing a knee up between the boy's legs. He was scorched raw with arousal as Harry choked and moaned. "Insolent to the last, mmm?"

The low, brutal tones of Snape's voice rumbled right into Harry's skin, making his hips jerk and the small of his back shift against something hard and hot and totally unmistakable.

"Pro- professor," Harry keened, throat working, frustrated by his absolute incapacitation at Snape's hands. "You're -"

"I'm what?" Snape interjected harshly and released Harry's arm and hair to take hold of his hips. "Hard for you?" He pulled Harry back against him, firmly, forcing him to feel it. Harry, beset, braced his hands on the edge of the table, trying to find some sort of anchor. "Could you be… so… dense…?" Snape punctuated this last bit of provocation with a trio of not-quite-hard-enough bites up the Gryffindor's throat, eliciting a quiver- a stuttered heartbeat.

Harry's breathing hitched and faltered and he _had_ to look back at his tormentor. Had to know what the hated Professor Snape looked like when he was doing such things- when his voice and hands scalded.

Over his shoulder, their eyes locked. Harry almost had to look away at what he saw there, afraid of somehow being burned by it. Severus' narrow eyes were dark and inscrutably cruel as ever, but somehow hotter, deeper. Penetrating him.

Turning hesitantly, wary of the speed at which he'd been trapped before, Harry faced his Potions Master. Snape's hands, hot, bruising his hips, slid just enough to allow him the movement. Reaching out, Severus drew a calloused hand down from Harry's jaw, past his chest, ribs. Harry followed it with his eyes, fascinated, almost deliriously aroused, and found he couldn't suppress his body's reactions any more than he could stop from breathing. As the ever so dexterous fingers trailed past his navel, he was wracked with a shudder of anticipation, but, maddeningly, they paused there. Harry couldn't help but arch into the touch: desperate, wanting, frustrated beyond reason. Severus raised an eyebrow and slid his hand lower, both giving in and taking control, rolling his fingers with knowing sensuality.

"Impatient," he hissed, over an anguished whine. Harry grabbed the back of his neck – not overlooked by Snape as the first entirely voluntary act of participation – and held on like it was his last link to reality.

Letting himself be pulled in closer, and confronted with a notion too attractive to pass up, Snape attached himself to the side of Harry's neck, and lifted the boy up onto the table for better access. Harry's nails dug into Snape's skin and the boy moaned: hooked his legs around the Potions Master's waist, arched maddeningly into his touch.

Severus sucked harder on Potter's skin and marked him, wanting it darker, more defined, more painful, fueled by the young body pressed close, so easily manipulated, and sheer animal desire. The nails that cut deep into the back of his neck stuttered and dug in at his every action, galvanizing him, as his manhood stood like stone within his robes. All at once, though, he felt Harry stiffen and shudder and he bit sharply down on the mark he'd made, removing his hand from its task. No, no, he couldn't let Potter come already.

"Nnnh," Harry protested, "Don't-" he was cut off as Snape raised his head and looked him right in the eye. Harry felt his already unbearable arousal spike.

"If you're going to tell me to stop, tell me now," Snape husked, and pulled Harry towards him until they were pressed flush. "I won't ask you again." Harry blinked, too aware of each inch of unbearably frustrating contact to concentrate.

"I, Merlin, I can't think-" he said, flexing his legs where they were hooked around the dark figure. Snape paused, before separating himself, removing every point of contact. Harry was left sitting on the table, legs spread, chest heaving, cock aching.

"Make a choice, Mr. Potter," Snape said, almost succeeding in sounding imperious and unaffected. Of course, his not-so-subtly tented robes did little to aid in that endeavor. Harry gazed at him intently for three seconds, five… Snape swallowed, almost nervous. Ten seconds. Harry opened his mouth to speak, but seemed to think better of it. Instead, he took his loose tie in hand and yanked it free, and, before the scrap of cloth could hit the floor, had popped his second shirt button open. Severus watched for a mere moment or two before deciding that that was damn well enough of a decision for him.


	7. Forfeit

Knocking Harry's hands aside, Snape seized the front of the boy's shirt and pulled him bodily from the table. More of a show of force, than anything else. Harry, who clutched Snape's wiry arms to keep his balance, saw stars as his the back of head was smacked against a cabinet. Vaguely, he recognized the sound of the bottles within clinking against each other, but the dream didn't seem important just then. This was the here and the now and he was already too twisted up and provoked to make much sense of his own thoughts anyway. Snape had already finished unbuttoning Harry's shirt and was biting a path across the prominent sweep of his exposed collarbones when Harry snapped out of his mind, and he grabbed frantically at the man who'd brought him _so close_…and then started all over again.

"Professor," Harry gasped, and fumbled at the bindings of Snape's heavy black robes. "Please – !" Harry's belt was stripped from the loops just as he managed to puzzle out the clasps on Severus' chest, and Severus, caught by the sheer eagerness, allowed his robes to be pushed from his shoulders. However, he stilled Harry's hands before they could reach for the buttons on the tunic he wore beneath. This was not the time for any sort of equality.

"Not today," he growled, and Harry obeyed, for once, without question. When Severus let go of Harry's wrists it was simply to finish the job he'd begun. Within moments Harry's slacks were stripped down, shoes toed off, and underwear tugged free, all cast aside the way of the Potions Master's robes. Harry had neither the time nor the presence of mind to want to cover himself.

Snape's touch was everywhere, Harry, like putty in his hands. Utterly pliable and suppliant. Thoroughly responsive. Wholly addictive. Snape scored his nails down pale ribs, and Harry's back arched into it. The boy was panting, his erection standing hard and demanding from a thatch of black hair. Snape let his eyes sweep over him with final appraisal. Enough foreplay.

Deftly retrieving his wand from his sleeve, he twirled it momentarily for Harry to see, waiting for the realization of utter forfeit to register in the wild, unfocused green eyes. The boy was wandless, naked, pinned immobile, deep within the castle, at the mercy of a far superior wizard who may or may not be in the market to kill him.

Harry's blood ran cold, even as his cock throbbed in the chill dungeon air. Snape recognized it all with satisfaction: Didn't even need to glance into the wide-open mind to read every heady reaction as it came.

"Don't be afraid," he murmured icily, tilting Harry's head up with the tip of his wand. "You'll enjoy it." Harry closed his eyes. "No no," Snape insisted, splaying a hand on the young, fluttering chest, "don't try to hide from this, Potter." Green eyes did as they were bid. "Spread your legs." The Gryffindor obeyed this order as well, though he couldn't help but feel like a mouse being tortured with by a sleek, black cat. This thought held his attention just long enough for the hand that grasped his bare, straining flesh to totally shock him. Against his throat, he felt the rumble of incantation spill from Snape's lips, and all of a sudden he recognized how incredibly tense each of his muscles was as they all relaxed. Harry was flooded with gentle warmth as the lubrication spell took effect.

"Good…" Snape murmured, as he unbuckled his belt, and with no more warning than that, hoisted Harry up against the wooden front of the potions stores, hooking a hand beneath one bare knee and an elbow beneath the other. Harry, alarmed, grabbed Snape's shoulders and tried to gain some sort of traction, but was left, unstable, to depend solely on the Potions Master's strength to hold him up. But all such concerns died in his mind as he felt the hot, smooth tip of Snape's cock stroke against his entrance.

"Oh – " he gasped, and dug his fingers into Snape's flexed shoulders. Severus made a small noise of approval.

"I'd ask you if you were sure," Snape said as he caught and trapped Harry's eyes with his own, "if I thought it would make a difference." Harry's response was lost as his mind whited-out with disbelief and pleasure.

Snape, buried to the hilt, was both glad he'd thought to administer the cautionary spells, and intrigued as to what sort of sounds would tear themselves from Potter's throat had he not. Judging by those the boy was already emitting, though, the dead would rise at the racket. The whelp was tight, that was for sure. Virginal. Snape's vision went red with the thrill of being the first.

Withdrawing just enough, Harry's heels digging into his back, Snape angled his hips and snapped them back into place, ripping a sound of pure subhuman ecstasy from the figurehead of the Wizarding World. Snape grunted in response, spurred brutally on by the wanton, unfettered reactions.

Harry felt some secret point of pleasure within him struck again and again as he was penetrated and used – fucked – by his inscrutable Potions Professor. His thoughts were in turmoil trying to reconcile that, but somehow he made no headway when so much of his blood was diverted from his brain. The wood molding of the cabinet he was crushed against dug sharply into his back with each thrust, but that only made him cry out louder, clutch Snape's neck harder, reach climax faster. It was quick, too quick, but in Harry it'd been building for days – maybe longer.

Through the thick haze of lust in Severus' mind he again saw the signs of impending orgasm in the raven-haired body. So, suddenly, violently, the Potion's Master dug deep into Harry's mind, finding no resistance whatsoever, and flooded it with every fantasy he'd ever had about the boy. Simultaneously seizing Harry's manhood, he squeezed.

Harry's body seized up almost to the point of convulsion as his climax hit him, coming totally beyond sound, beyond thought, beyond anything but the unbelievable sensation.

Severus bit down savagely on Harry's marked neck, as muscles clamped down around him like a vice. Blissfully, excruciatingly tight, speeding him unexpectedly toward orgasm. When the body he was supporting went limp it took him only a few, erratic thrusts to find his own peak, spilling himself with a deep, throaty noise that somehow made Harry's spine tingle even after all that had been done to him.

Snape collapsed forward into Harry, bracing a hand on the top edge of the cabinet and locking his knees to keep them supporting him. They breathed.


	8. Aftermath

"Professor…" Harry slurred, hands still buried in Snape's hair, legs still locked around him, back still torn by the wooden molding.

"What, Potter?" Snape replied, voice muffled by Harry's neck, but still clearly irritated by his speaking.

"I… I'm seeing spots." Harry felt the lips at his throat curve. Snape was obviously quite pleased with himself.

"Give it a moment," he said, and pulled from Harry's pliant body. Letting the boy's legs down slowly, he tucked himself back into his trousers, and Harry, unsupported, slid heavily to his knees. Or more, attempted to. In actual fact Severus managed to catch him just before he landed. "Do try to stay upright," The Potions Master drawled, pulling Harry back upright and setting him on his feet. Harry kept his balance this time, but when Severus pulled his hands back he found them wet with blood.

He sighed. Fragile.

"Turn around, please, Potter," Snape said. But Harry didn't seem to understand. "You're bleeding." Harry looked sharply back over his shoulder at that and indeed, he was bleeding. Quite a lot. "Turn." Harry ran a hand through his hair, suddenly very aware of himself.

"Could I, ah, have my trousers first… Sir?" he asked, shifting from foot to foot. Severus pinched the bridge of his nose with two blood-free fingers.

"Yes," he hissed. Harry practically scurried to retrieve them. As he bent to put them on, however, Snape stopped him. "Wait, wait, _Scourgify_," he incanted, clearing Harry of the various fluids which lingered, beginning to dry, on his skin.

Harry cleared his throat with a soft,

"Thanks," and finished pulling on his slacks with a new flush in his cheeks. When Harry turned, baring his lacerated back to Snape's hands, it took little thought for Severus to connect the damaged flesh to the molding on the cabinet beside them. Snape rolled his eyes.

"Skin like paper, Potter?" he said, contemptuous, and opened the offending storage closet, rummaging for a moment.. Harry stood silently by, thoughts not organized enough to retort, as he pulled a vial from within. "Drink this," he said, handing it over. "And sleep on your stomach tonight." Harry took the bottle without question, still very much in a daze. "Now get dressed."

Sweeping down to pick up his own discarded robes, Severus flicked his wand to clear them of debris before shrugging back into them. Looking up after refastening each silver clasp, he saw Harry too had redressed himself, undone tie hanging loose around his neck on either side of an open collar, which revealed a deep, purple, bite-ringed bruise.

"Mr. Potter," Snape said, only just able to hide the pleasure from his voice. "I suggest you button your collar."

"Why?"

Snape took a few steps toward the Gryffindor, who shifted back nervously. Snape's mouth twitched.

"Take my word for it," he said, and pressed on the mark with his thumb. Harry inhaled sharply, and jerked back further. Those green, green eyes flicked up to meet his, first with confusion, then realization, disbelief. Harry opened his mouth, no doubt to condemn him for the mark, but again seemed to think better of it. Instead, The Gryffindor simply buttoned up his collar, tied his tie, and stuck his hands in his pockets.

Snape, satisfied that Potter had made an intelligent decision for once, leaned in very, very close. Close enough to kiss.

"I feel that you may be even more incompetent than usual at shielding yourself from me at the moment," he said, and Harry's lips parted expectantly as the pad of Severus' thumb skimmed his bottom lip, reacting solely to the proximity, and not the words. "So I suggest we reschedule your tutoring for another day." Snape straightened up. "Ah, and I'd rather you be elsewhere when you realize just exactly what you've done and have some sort of breakdown." And then he had turned away, billowing robes and cruel stoicism firmly in place, and Harry realized with a vacant tingle that he hadn't actually _been_ kissed yet.

So, he left.

With Potter gone, Severus sat heavily at his desk, and scrubbed his face with his palms. That… that had certainly gone to plan. But he wasn't sure if it had been the _smart_ plan to make. He was putting himself in multi-faceted danger by being so thoroughly hedonistic, and he knew it. But Harry Potter had never been anything but a horrible temptation from day one. Whether that temptation was to exact revenge for his father's cruelty, or to have him writhing under Snape's hands, it made no difference. The boy was a lure in every way. His foolhardiness provoked Snape to punish it. His surprising purity and inncoence begged to be owned and used and violated. His body, so pale and fragile, called out to be taught what a man's hands could create in it. And that's what Snape would do. He would punish and own and use and violate and teach. And Potter would beg for every second. And it would last for as long as Severus willed it.

At least, that's what the Potions Master told himself.

After showering, gritting his teeth as the normally comfortable water scalded the wounds on his back, Harry took the potion Snape had offered. Despite the fairly early hour, within minutes he was so deeply asleep that he dreamt not at all, though he slept for nearly half a day.

When he awoke the next morning, clear shafts of Saturday sunlight falling across his face, Harry thought for one bleary moment that the previous night's events had been a dream. Then, he tried to move.

"_Gods_." He felt like he'd been beaten with a rod. Every muscle he was aware of was excruciatingly sore. Rolling groggily from his bed, groaning at the effort, Harry grabbed his glasses and made his way stiffly to the washroom. Rubbing his eyes as he went to brush his teeth, it took him a moment to register his reflection in the mirror.

His toothbrush clattered to the sink. Horrified, Harry was awake at once. The mark on his neck stood out like an ink stain, and the sharp imprints of teeth were clearly visible around the outer edges. Everything came back in a flood and before Harry could think he was on his knees, vomiting into the toilet.

He stayed there, kneeling on the cold tiles, for a long while, shaking and aching and unable to summon the will to rise.

What was he _doing_?


	9. Slipping Away

Severus attended breakfast Saturday morning with no expectation whatsoever of seeing Potter there. And, just as he'd predicted, the Gryffindor was nowhere to be found. He was, no doubt, still unconscious in his bed, and would be for at least two more hours. Perhaps then he would ferret himself away, burying himself in denial. Severus nearly sneered at the idea.

Foolish Gryffindors, always so unable to believe they've done something even the slightest bit immoral. Always trying to make it right, always martyring themselves.

Later, when Harry had picked himself up and brushed his mouth clean, he was again powerfully compelled to scrub himself. For, despite Snape's "_scourgify"_ and his earlier shower, he still felt immeasurably dirty. This time, however, he turned the hot all the way up, and washed himself thoroughly and exhaustively, but gently, mindful of the morning's soreness. It seemed as though every time he moved, something else hurt, and every time he looked, he found another shadow of bruising. However, the wounds on his back were mostly gone, and Harry considered how likely it was that Snape had specifically chosen a healing potion that would bypass bruises entirely. Of course he did. Wouldn't want to waste such an obvious, humiliating mark. Harry grimaced. How was he supposed to cover it? Make it go away? He couldn't exactly go to the infirmary and ask for something, could he? No, he'd have to ask Snape who would, no doubt, taunt and then deny him. Harry ran his fingers lightly over the bruise. Bloody wonderful.

For Harry, the weekend went by in a whirlwind of lies.

Why was he limping? Why did he sit like that? Why was he so jumpy? Why did he keep rubbing his neck?

By Sunday, He was seriously considering provoking Malfoy's henchmen, if only to gain a legitimate reason for limping. However, as it stood: He'd slept wrong; he pulled something in Quidditch practice; he didn't know. They were weak, easily spotted lies, and he felt worse with each one. But there was no way he could tell a soul the truth, not when he could hardly believe it himself – when it was so very unlikely a story. He felt worse, too, every time his skin flushed at the glimpse of a black cloak or the sound of a fluid reprimand in the distance. This was not healthy – not by any stretch of the imagination. And, Harry thought horribly, he was letting it happen, letting every bit of logical reasoning slip through his fingers like water.

By Monday's Potion's class, Harry had worked himself into quite a state. And he was running out of ways to cover up the mark Snape had given him, which was giving no signs of fading whatsoever.

Harry sat rigid as a post on his stool throughout the class, determined not to let the Potions Master see him shudder or bite his lip. Any such sign of weakness was inexcusable in Harry's mind. But, God, it was harder than he could have imagined. And Snape was watching like a vulture for just such a slip, stalking back and forth among the desks, but always keeping one dark eye on Harry, who could feel it like a weight.

Somehow, determined as he was, Harry managed to passably complete the day's assigned potion. However, it took an incredible amount of willpower, willpower that Harry was using up like kindling. For, though he managed to bring his potion to the front of the class with steady hands and head held high, Harry couldn't help but feel it was a sorry imitation of real indifference.

After a silent eternity, the class was dismissed and began to file out with their usual teenage energy. Harry lagged as he cleaned up his station, steeling himself before approaching the Professor, while Snape simply watched him pack up his things.

"A word, if you would, Mr. Potter," he said, just as the clank and shuffle of cauldrons and parchment petered out. Harry rubbed his neck reflexively. "I believe we need to reschedule your remedial potions."

Oh. Right. There had been something about that after…well…after what had happened. Harry, shoulders consciously relaxed, approached the front of the class, but dared not go within easing touching distance. Of course, Snape simply took the necessary steps himself, robes sweeping out impressively behind him. Harry cleared his throat.

"Professor," he started, unable to make eye contact, but reluctant to look to the floor. "Do you think you could give me a healing draught that works on bruises?" He called up as much daring as he could, funneling irritation and sarcasm into his voice. Severus tilted his head to the side, totally ignoring the trumped-up tone.

"Mmmm..." he mused, voice somehow lower and more penetrating than it had been only moments before. "I shouldn't think so, Potter." He eyed Harry's buttoned-up collar, and Harry covered the spot with his hand, false confidence faltering. "I could give you something for pain, if you truly find that you can't handle it." There was a glimmer of amusement across Severus' eyes as the word 'pain' crossed his lips.

Harry straightened himself. He could handle it fine. He wasn't a child.

"No thank you, Sir," he said, and dropped his hand to his side. Severus quirked an eyebrow at this behavior. Either the Gryffindor had, in fact, not reacted as expected to his own actions, or he was trying very, very hard to hide it. Snape strongly suspected the latter, and couldn't help but test his theory.

"Must you be so stubborn?" he mused, and trailed one long finger down Harry's red and gold tie. Harry's breath caught in his throat, and he shifted back from the touch, but faltered mid motion, torn. Should he pull away, or stand his ground?

"Don't," he said, voice soft and almost tortured. "Don't." And that was all it took – one touch – and his carefully constructed resolve crumbled to nothing.

Nothing had ever affected Severus like that delicate shift into total submission. He felt his lust for the boy boil to the surface, and even reached out to pull the robe from Harry's shoulders, forgetting for a moment that he hardly had the time. He could practically hear the next class of hellions congregating just outside the door…

"Yet again you catch me at the most inappropriate moment," he hissed against Harry's ear, not sure himself when he'd pulled them together. Harry gathered a bit of his usual self as he was pushed away.

"Is there such a thing as an appropriate time for this?" he asked, just as the room began to refill with students.

"Yes," came the smooth, ever cruel reply. "Later."


	10. Now

Harry Continued through the rest of his day in something of a daze. All of his thought power, instead of being dedicated to turning mice into trainers in transfiguration or taking notes in History of Magic, was trying desperately to convince him of two very different things simultaneously. One side of him was raging with fear and disgust and screaming at him to never set foot in the dungeons– never to let Snape's hands near him – again. The other side was simply, almost calmly, reminding him that there was really no point in resisting, not when Snape was so… persuasive. So cruel and dark and precise in every interaction, making everything an impossible trial of self control. Making every offhand comment or critique seem charged with the memory of what he'd done – what they'd done.

By that point of understanding, which was reached later that evening, the angry, self-righteously disgusted voice had been totally drowned out. All that was left as Harry went down to dinner beside his friends and fellow Gryffindors, then, were considerations of Snape's hands, his mouth, the slim, black-clad body beneath his robes. In short, when Harry glanced up towards the teacher's table in the great hall, there was nothing at all in his mind but the Potions Master. Nothing at all but the threat, the promise, of "later."

Severus saw Potter the moment he entered the room, surrounded by his red-and-gold compatriots. Severus saw him all right, but did not dare look at him. The last thing he needed at this point was to draw attention to either himself or the boy. And, of course, worse yet would be to draw attention to himself _and _the boy. So he ate in near silence, curtly answering the well-meant inquiries of the rest of the faculty and generally rebuffing all small talk. He really rather wanted dinner to be over, along with the rest of the evening. He really rather wanted night to fall. He really rather wanted "later" to become "now."

Well past midnight, Harry was awoken by a blurry, yet painfully familiar set of huge ears and ridiculous googly-eyes.

"Dobby!" Harry groaned, and put a pillow over his face. "What are you doing in here?" He had been having a rather enjoyable dream and had wanted to continue it. Well, so much for that. Dobby rocked excitedly back and forth on his heels.

"Dobby has a message for Harry Potter Sir!" Dobby squeaked, and bowed once or twice, his hats teetering dangerously. This news got Harry's attention. He sat up, groping for his glasses.

"From who?" he asked, but Dobby seemed oblivious to the question, overexcited.

"Dobby did not want to bring it to Harry Potter at first, because Dobby knows that Harry potter does not like – "

"Dobby!" Harry interjected again. "From who?"

"But Professor Snape said Harry Potter would enjoy it very much. So Dobby agreed to bring it to Harry Potter!" At this, Dobby reached under his precarious stack of hats and withdrew a folded scrap of parchment, handing it over almost reverently.

"Oh… Thanks Dobby."

"Harry Potter is very welcome! Dobby is always ready to help Harry Potter!" With that, the elf bowed low and apparated away with a pop, leaving Harry's pulse racing as he held the paper.

"Open it," he said to himself, as if trying to gain more courage. "Just go ahead and…oh."

The parchment was blank, save for one word, written in neat, slanted script:

"_Now_."

Oh.

Harry was already out the door.

He was well down the hall in darkness, in fact, when he realized it would probably be pertinent to go back for his cloak and map. It would hardly do to be caught in the dungeons by Mrs. Norris, Peeves, or any other late- night lurkers stalking the halls. That thought, of course, just made Harry think of Snape's late night lurking that had so often gotten in the way of whatever slightly anarchic plans he, Ron and Hermione had been trying to execute. He smiled ruefully at the memories. This delay, however, was just enough time for his brain to catch up to his actions. In an almost unconscious contraction he crumpled the parchment in his hand, and looked at it for a fraction of a second, so small and innocuous in his palm. He flung it to the floor like a hot coal.

He couldn't go down there tonight. He couldn't just… obey. The thought made him flush, turning his stomach with panic. He could practically see Snape's fury as the seconds passed, as the Potions Professor counted his lateness… or even, that he was not coming at all…

That was almost enough to get him moving again. Now that they had crossed the invisible line that made them student and teacher, there was nothing that Snape couldn't do to him. There was no punishment out of bounds. The idea was terrifying, unexpected.

Harry would simply go down to the dungeons and tell the Potions Master that it couldn't happen again. That he wouldn't – he wouldn't let it. Yes. That was all he would say. And then he would leave and come back to bed. And sleep.

Even as he gathered his cloak around him and crept through the portrait hole, the excuse sounded feeble. And yet, it was all he had to go on, so he bolstered it the best he could.

This time, when he reached the heavy wooden doors, he didn't bother knocking. And this time, Severus didn't bother with the pleasantries. Before Harry could fully remove his invisibility cloak, Snape had cornered him, and the Gryffindor almost forgot right then what he'd promised himself he'd say.

"Wait!" he said, dismayed to find his back against the stones of the potion's classroom walls already. Time was not being wasted here – not this time.

"What, Mr. Potter? You are already late." Severus' tone was malicious and measured, and Harry suddenly felt entirely too exposed. He was dressed in simple trousers and a T-shirt, what he'd been sleeping in, and was acutely aware of the thinness of the fabric – the ease of removal. Severus raised an eyebrow, seeming to notice such things at the same moment. "You had something to say?" he asked, voice and intonation implying the absolute uselessness of anything Harry might have in mind. And even then, Harry knew that was true.


	11. Bedded

"I can't do this. Not again. I won't." Even as he made this protest, though, Harry dropped his eyes. "I only came to tell you that." Then, he forced himself to square his shoulders against the wall, and lift his chin. Look convincing. Look strong. Look like you mean it. He steeled himself.

"Oh, is that what you came to say?" Snape asked, and for one insane moment Harry thought he was free to go. However, when he moved to push past the Potions Master, he knew a fraction of a second before it happened that he was about to make hard contact with the wall once more.

"How noble of you," Snape added, lip curled, as he trapped Harry's wrists on either side of his head. Harry blinked his eyes to clear them of impact-conjured stars. His head had soundly struck the stones once again. Not hard enough to cause damage, of course, as Snape well knew.

The hands around his wrists relaxed, and fingers splayed across Harry's skin. There was nothing restraining him for the moment, only the suggestion of Severus' quickness and unrivaled ability to incapacitate.

"I shouldn't have to hold you down." Severus' tone was almost musing, but Harry couldn't be sure – couldn't be sure of anything, anymore. "I shouldn't even have to…" the Potions Master trailed off and Harry felt a soft probe in his mind, no less violating or malicious for all its gentleness. The images trickled in at first, and it took Harry a moment or two to realize that they were no longer Snape's experiences – his dreams – alone. There was much more fodder now.

There was Harry, lifted up onto the worktable, Snape's sharp mouth at his throat. Harry, making his choice. Harry, crying out as Snape manipulated his body – played him like an instrument. Harry closed his eyes, knowing even as he did it that there was no way to block the visions. He felt breath on his neck.

"Not when you were _begging_ for it." At once the rivulet of images turned to a flood. And Harry was powerless, if it were possible to become more so, under the hot weight of his own arousal. He barely managed, then, a soft,

"No-" as he realized that he was being pulled, manhandled really, away from the wall and across the room.

Severus searched hastily through his pockets for the appropriate key, incensed that it was taking him more than a moment to find it. Knowing Potter, fickle little denial-monger that he was, every moment not spent in manipulation (mental or otherwise) was a moment that could send the brat into a shame spiral. Yet Harry was close by his side still, occupied by the steady flood of erotica Severus was supplying, young body radiating heat, calling out to be used. Where was that key?!

At last, he retrieved it, and, closing the door to a storage space, inserted it into the lock and turned. Then, when he reopened the door, it revealed the entrance to his personal flat. A useful security measure, but a potential point for delay. Harry was, after all, an infuriatingly curious soul.

Momentarily grateful that Potter was, in fact, too distracted to inquire after the enchanted lock, Severus pulled the boy into his foyer. Not that he would have given the time for, or the answers to, such questions.

In fact, the moment the door had clicked shut behind them, Severus gave the Gryffindor no time to even get his bearings.

"Where - ?" Harry started, but was cut short as he was pushed hard in the chest.

"Quiet!" The word rent the air like a curse.

Harry had flung his arms out behind him to break his fall, but soon found that he hadn't needed to. He'd landed on something soft. A bed. Snape's bed.

Suddenly the realness of the situation doubled in Harry's mind, and again, Snape saw the flash of fear across those green eyes, indicating nothing to him but that the boy was still paying attention. It was proper that he should be afraid. It was right, and it made Snape's head swim with pleasure and the rush that only total dominance can provide. And this was dominance of the purest kind.

Harry stayed quiet and lay where he had fallen, propped up on his hands, as Severus undid the silver clasps holding his black robes together. And the Potions Master was everything Harry wasn't as he worked: He was methodical, calm, in control, hands steady as he shrugged almost casually out of the robes and hung them over the back of an armchair. His eyes were focused and intense and they pinned Harry to the bed like a moth to a specimen board, squirming and terrified but unable to help himself – unable to move at all.

Severus was rolling up his sleeves, then, like the alchemist he was, as if he were simply preparing for a long night of work. And, Harry thought, he would be just as thorough here as he ever had been before the cauldron. And if there was one thing Severus Snape was known for, it was his thoroughness; his attention to detail. Harry's skin broke out in gooseflesh at the thought – Snape would miss no opportunity, leave no nerve untouched, no inch of Harry unspoken for.

Severus watched Potter coolly as he pulled back his sleeves, watching for the moment alarm would reinsert itself into the green hooded gaze. An inch or two more, a turn of the wrist… there it was. It moved like a ripple across the Gryffindor's face, and to Severus there was nothing more pleasing.

Harry's breath faltered unexpectedly as his eyes caught on something dark and sinister on Snape's pallid skin. The tattoo, clear as day, seemed to look directly at him from its cold, skeletal eyes. Harry found he couldn't look away from the gaze. It was inanimate, he knew, but still so piercing. He realized for a moment that he had never really looked at a Dark Mark before. Whenever he'd seen one in the past it had always been for only a flash in the heat of battle or a glimpse tucked away in the dark. And here it was, the brand of Snape's past, fully exposed for him.

Something in Harry wanted to touch it very much, even as his scar tingled in warning. This man was dangerous. This man, that Harry couldn't help but crumble beneath, was a murderer, a Deatheater, a threat.

Severus ran his fingertips thoughtfully over the mark, knowing Potter's eyes were locked onto it, before unbuttoning his collar.


	12. Unexpected Proclivities

Harry felt a brief thrill when Snape's hands moved to his collar, and he was distracted from the Morsmordre, thinking for a moment that he would actually get to see the Potions Master even the slightest bit vulnerable. Many of the students at Hogwarts believed that Snape simply had no skin at all under his robes and tunics. After all, no one had ever seen it. However, Severus merely loosened the cloth about his neck, revealing a sliver of collarbone, before turning his full attention back to the Gryffindor in his bed.

Potter looked pale, almost in shock.

"Well, Mr. Potter?" Severus said, and folded his arms. "Shall I restrain you somehow or do you plan on behaving yourself?" He added a brief image to this question, and Harry's throat worked, his pallor replaced by a warm flush of color. Severus quirked an eyebrow, intrigued. The Gryffindor didn't seem totally averse to the idea. But perhaps that was reason enough to _not_ do such a thing. Yes… in fact, binding the boy would probably only make it easier for Potter to reconcile later. And Severus didn't particularly want that to be easy. But his thoughts were distracting him from the moment, and Potter was speaking.

"Do I have to chose one?" Severus couldn't help the twitch in his mouth at that. Ever impetuous. Yet even such an advanced case of total impertinence could be… rectified. He leaned over the bed, settling his weight, and palmed Potter between the legs.

"I suppose not," he growled. Harry gasped at the sudden intensity of sensation, and was horrified at the way his hips pushed up to meet Snape's hand. "Though it seems your hormones will choose for you." Harry flushed furiously as Snape continued to bait him, even as he arched up again into the touch. When it stopped all together, Harry had to gather his wits in order to register the next command: a single, cold word: "Strip." The Gryffindor moved to comply without question, though his fingers fumbled to undo his suddenly overwhelmingly complicated knotted trousers. Snape was simply too close to him, eyes too dark and sharp, body heat surprisingly pervasive for such a cold, cold man.

Harry made a frustrated noise and Severus scoffed.

"Spare me your inanity, Potter," he said, and waved his wand. "_Evanesco._"

And just like that, Harry's clothes vanished. The Gryffindor felt only the briefest flash of embarrassment as Severus' eyes scored over his bare flesh, wondering in that moment what had possessed him to do such a thing at all. What had possessed him to come when called? The look in Severus' eyes, however, when they swept up to meet his, was enough to set his whole body aflame, and all thought, all emotion was stamped into submission by it. Every emotion, that was, save for two.

Severus grabbed his ankle with a growl and yanked, spilling Harry flat on his back on the bed.

Fear.

Harry's fingers dug into the quilt as Snape's mouth found the bruise that still had not faded, fingernails scraping roughly over his ribs.

Lust.

"God – " Harry cried out as Severus' hand returned to his cock. "Nnnn… Sn- Prof- Wha- Oh-" his words were fractured and totally unintelligible. And Snape's temper flared.

"Merlin _must_ you _babble_?" he hissed, and covered Harry's mouth with his hand. He half expected Potter to thrash about at this, maybe even bite him, but Harry did neither. He was shocked silent, and Severus took pause at the immediacy of the reaction. This second encounter was to be a night of revelation, it would seem.

Harry's eyelids fluttered, irises dark, his breathing labored with arousal, and Severus couldn't help but be reminded of the fantasies he'd been wont to have about the boy. It seemed, to his increasingly reckless interest, that some of the more notable tendencies were not far off. It was, for instance, not such a stretch of the imagination that Potter would react favorably to any number of… unusual sexual tactics just then.

"Mr. Potter I must say that you seem to enjoy submission more than one would anticipate," Severus murmured, not even having to consciously roughen his voice for the Gryffindor's benefit – it was already there. Harry shuddered, and it was unclear to Severus whether the movement was born of humiliation, arousal, fear, or some potent combination of the three. However, they were all adequate reactions, so he did not dwell.

He noted with a ripple of desire that Potter's hands were fisted in the bedclothes, making no attempt at all to disengage his muffling hand. Perhaps the Savior of the Wizarding World needed a release from such status. How perverse to exploit that, Severus thought, and didn't bother subduing the feral leer that twisted up the corner of his mouth. Potter made a small noise from beneath his hand at the look. Very well.

"How does it feel, Mr. Potter?" Snape asked, resuming the stroking of his right hand while keeping his left clapped over Harry's mouth. The Gryffindor's fingers dug deeper into the mattress, his hips thrusting up into his hand. "To be so utterly defenseless?"

'Like dying,' Harry thought madly, oblivious to the way his nails dug into his palms through the fabric he clutched.

"Terrible? Excruciating? Wonderful? I profess I cannot detect the difference between your cries of pain and those of ecstasy." Harry moaned. "I'd wondered after it before, of course," Severus' tone was almost conversational, even as he paused to bite briefly at a nipple. "Ever since I first heard you scream." Harry thrashed. He felt his orgasm threatening and for a moment he prayed that Snape would just let him come so he could get the Hell out before he lost his mind permanently. "If I had to choose, however, I believe my preference would be your utter," another bite, this time Harry's collarbone, "silence when I penetrated your mind," he gave a particularly brutal tug, "and your body. When every inch of you was totally," Severus hissed the next word with calculated wickedness, just as he wrung the very last bit of Harry's self-control out of him, and the Gryffindor spilled himself: "_Mine_."

Harry gasped greedily at the air as the slender, dominating hand slid from his lips.

"Oh. Dear. Merlin," he panted.

"Yes, I very much prefer your silence." Severus slapped him on the thigh. "Turn over." Harry jumped and yelped.

"What?" His voice was hoarse. Surely Snape didn't mean to…

"Dear me," Severus said, crossing his arms, "you didn't think we were done here already?" As soon as it was said, Harry realized what a truly ridiculous thought that had been. He looked up at Snape but turned his eyes away at once at the sight of the Potion's Masters clear arousal where is strained against the fabric of his slacks. He, with such knowledge, couldn't help but think of the sound Snape had made – that carnal, pleasured growl – and the way it had shot through Harry's body like an arrow. He… he wanted to hear it again, but he was still so sore…

Severus was leaning over him again, kissing a path across and down his chest, and Harry broke out in goosebumps as Snape's dark hair brushed, featherlike, across his hypersensitive skin.

"May I remind you, Potter, that we have all night?" Severus murmured, punctuating his words with his mouth on Potter's flesh. His long, torturous fingers dipped into the evidence of Harry's climax where it had spattered on the Gryffindor's stomach and Severus considered it thoughtfully. "I shouldn't be surprised," He began, and held one finger up to Harry's mouth, "if I wring two more orgasms out of that youthful body before you leave here, Potter, so be grateful, hmm?" his voice changed yet again, jumping back to a command, and Harry had the strange thought that Snape must have somehow been trained in how to use his voice so effectively. "Now. Turn over."

And Harry did. Come twice more, that is.

When he was finally released some time later, it was all Harry could do to simply stand on his own two legs (which felt suspiciously like they were filled with water, not bone or muscle), let alone climb the innumerable stairs between himself and his bed. Yet, somehow he managed the incredible feat, and was so exhausted by it that he collapsed into bed, just as he was, clothed and wrapped in the invisibility cloak.

It was disconcerting, to say the least, to wake up with no apparent legs.


	13. Speak of the Devil

"Ugh?" Harry groaned when he was presented with the sight of his disembodied torso in the harsh morning light. He reached out to feel for his legs, and was dully relieved to find that he had simply fallen asleep in his cloak, and hadn't somehow become a paraplegic overnight. This minor relief was destroyed as he moved a little more.

As he moved to sit up against the headboard, the muscles in his shoulders and back knotted painfully, pulling tight. Grimacing all the way, he shifted to the edge of the jumbled bed and stood. His legs weakened precariously. Feeling rather as though he'd just finished running a marathon, or something equally draining, he stretched delicately.

With sleepy confusion, he noted that he was even sore… down there. As the events of the previous night trickled back into his sluggish brain, he recalled where he'd been and how Snape had been unwilling to let him go without meeting his proffered "quota," and had therefore resorted to magical means to wring the impossible third climax out of him. Yes, that was probably one of many sources of his discomfort that morning. Not that he'd been complaining at the time, but…

"Merlin," Harry groaned, and rubbed his face. Then, as the quality of the sunlight struck him, "Wait." He glanced at the shallow shadows on his floor. "Oh, shite." It must have been close to noon.

Severus surveyed the student populous impassively from the staff table. It was well into lunch and Potter had not yet appeared. He was both pleased and annoyed by this reaction. Pleased, for one, that Potter was so very incapacitated under his touch, and annoyed that the boy was so damn delicate. He was 'the hope of the Wizarding World.' Its figurehead, for God sake. What right had he to be so easily broken? There would be no mercy to be found when the war came to fruition, and if Potter could not hold his own under Severus, what hope did he have against the Dark Lord? Surely they were all doomed. He glanced at his fellow professors and sniffed. Lot of good it would do them all.

Just then, Severus' eye was caught by a harried figure as it dashed into the hall. Well, perhaps 'dashed' was not the best word. Maybe 'rapidly limped' would be a more astute description. Severus looked resolutely down into his tea. It wouldn't do to catch the boy's eye just then- surely the Gryffindor would turn a red worthy of his scarlet colors. He scowled. Perhaps this would be more difficult to hide than he'd thought.

The following evening found Potter yet again falling to his knees in Severus' office. Unfortunately, however, not in the way the Potions Master might have preferred.

"Are you even attempting to occlude your mind, Potter?" Severus asked blithely from beside the collapsed teen, who was panting and holding his head. They'd been at it for the better part of an hour "You don't appear to be." Harry looked up at him with contempt, almost shouting out y_es, of course he was bloody trying, why the hell wouldn't he be?_ Instead, though, he said simply:

"No."

"No?" Severus raised an eyebrow.

"No. I mean, why would I?" Something snapped. "After all I just LOVE having you parade my dead parents in front of me over and _over_ and over again! It's like bloody. Fucking. Christmas!" Harry was firmly back on his feet. "I love it!"

"What have I told you about controlling your emotions?" Severus replied, unperturbed. A muscle in Harry's jaw worked. "Concentration is the key."

"How in the name of Merlin am I supposed to concentrate when you KEEP PROVOKING ME?" Harry slammed a hand down onto the table beside him, and knocked a bottle of ink to the floor. It shattered, and splattered their shoes with tiny black droplets.

"Provoking, Mr. Potter? I hardly think that calling up your own memories and thoughts counts as provocation. _Reparo_." The spoiled ink resolved itself.

"Don't you? Because I'd call it torment." His voice broke on the last word, and he looked away from the black, penetrating eyes, almost ashamed as his emotions surged. Severus made a disgusted noise.

"Torment?" He asked, voice subdued. "You know nothing of such things. Again! _Legilimens_!"

Caught off guard, Harry clutched his head and cried out, vision after vision stripped out of him for Snape's inspection. His heart clenched painfully with each image of Sirius' face, the green of his mother's eyes, his father's smile - white behind the film of a photograph. With them came his associated thoughts. Anger. Grief. Guilt… guilt beyond human endurance, shredding him like knives through a paper doll. He'd killed them… killed them all. He felt the tears start to fall, fast and hot down his wintry cheeks. Snape let the spell yield.

"TRY, POTTER! TRY!" he shouted, brandishing his wand over the Gryffindor, who had, yet again, not managed to stay on his feet under the onslaught. Screaming his frustration back in Snape's face, Harry clenched his fists until he thought his wand might snap in two.

"STOP IT! STOP! You don't know! YOU DON'T - " The Gryffindor's voice caught and tore as his throat seized up around a sob. Snape, Shaking his sleeves out over his hands, folded his arms stoically over his chest. His countenance darkened impossibly, looming menacingly like a cloud of ash over Pompeii.

"I don't know _what_? The agony? The _torment_?" His voice was mocking, and Harry wanted to hit him, to break that sneering mouth and see it bleed. "You're but a child, Potter. You know nothing of suffering."

Harry's mind went black with apoplexy at such an insinuation.

"Nothing?" he choked out, too livid even to shout. "How dare y-" but Severus let him get no further than that.

"How dare I? How dare _I_?" He repeated, almost laughing, though of a bitter and dark sound. "You asinine little brat. Never has there walked a less grateful student through Hogwarts' halls. Never one so lacking in respect. You haven't the slightest inkling of what atrocities are committed – _daily_ – beyond these smothering maternal walls. If you knew even a fraction-"

Suddenly, before Severus' tirade could even truly begin, it was cut short. The Potion's master's hand closed over his forearm and he swallowed around his arrested ire, narrow eyes shifting at once from rage into something like shock.

There was hardly any delay at all between this sight and a searing pain in Harry's scar, his mind so weak and wide-open after Snape's punishing assault. Harry's eyes squeezed tight against the pain, and he barely heard Severus' parting command over his own curses.

"_Out. Now_."

When he opened his eyes again, the room blurred with tears and residual burn, Snape was gone, having left not so much as an echoed footstep behind.


	14. Brutality, Blood, and Bathing

Harry blinked at the empty room. Like hell he'd leave after that. Snape had just been called, that was bloody obvious. And Harry was going to lie in wait until he returned.

However, unfortunately for Harry's militant intentions, the threat of curfew (and therefore, Filch) loomed ominously, and he was forced to abandon his post. After all, he'd stupidly left his cloak behind, thinking he wouldn't need to be stumbling back to his dorm at 4am as he had only days earlier.

When Severus returned, just shy of daybreak, he wanted nothing more than to retire to the comfort of his bed. However, glancing down at his soiled clothes – which looked rather as though he'd waded knee-deep in blood – he knew he had to clean himself, and thoroughly, first.

Casting _scourgify_ several times over his body, along with everything he'd been wearing, he methodically cleared all visible residue from his person, before wrapping himself in a dressing gown. He drew a bath, feeling that somehow, the usual cleaning spells didn't seem quite sufficient. Hot water and soap, though, seemed a good supplement.

Sinking low into the tub, Severus strove to clear his mind, as his body was cleared of any remaining blood. At least, he thought, it hadn't been human. Small miracles. He sighed heavily, and urged the hot water to soothe him.

His mind went adrift… landing, after no great time, where it often did. He was, all told, a little surprised that he'd been blessed with an empty room at his return. Knowing Potter, the boy should have been tucked away in a chair, lying in wait or some such nonsense.

Potter… if the boy thought he knew the finer points of torment already…

What immense naïveté. Yet, Severus knew, it would be a fleeting quality, no matter how dominant: intrinsically a characteristic of youth. Such false world-weariness would no doubt be shattered before long and there wasn't anything anyone – not Severus, nor Albus, nor any of the Order of the Phoenix – could do for it. Particularly not in war. Not in _this_ war. Pity, the boy almost managed to be charming in his infuriating ignorance of the world and its more potent evils.

He recalled the moment Potter's face had contorted in pain as the Dark Lord's call went out, apparently triggering his scar even more than the Morsmordre itself. A second, maybe two seconds delay, that was all. Albus hadn't mentioned the severity of the situation- the sensitivity of the link. Perhaps the old man didn't know.

Severus was struck, as he contemplated the work left before him, with the impulse to slip beneath the surface of the water and greet his final rest. If Potter were ever to be free of his connection to the Dark Lord… the drudgery would be staggering. Their minds were linked like a floo network – almost instant communication.

The Dark Lord hadn't even been in a rage, or a thrill, or any other easily communicable emotion. Though, if anything, it had been closer to rage, in Severus' opinion. Apparently, someone had sought favor with Voldemort by playing the informant against one Antonin Dolohov and had reported (falsely, of course) that the senior Deatheater had been leaking information to the Order. Understandably, Dolohov's protestations had been vehement.

In the end, the Dark Lord had been unable to find sufficient evidence either for or against the claims and, being the creature he was, resolved to punish both parties. For Dolohov, he ordered several of the man's prized stallions torn apart. For the would-be informant, Severus did not know, nor did he particularly care to. He dipped his head back into the water, long hair going inky as it saturated.

Severus had been ordered to oversee the execution of Dolohov's horses, and had done as he was told, though remaining stoic and impassive was rather more difficult than usual. He always detested killing animals, with a few notable exceptions, and particularly so for such a petty purpose. Killing a man was one thing: Severus, being of the school of thought that no man is ever truly innocent, had done so before and would again. Something as plain as a horse, though, was incapable of wrongdoing. He drowned the lingering shriek of dumb fear and agony from his ears with water, submerging himself. Like the screams of children, mindless with pain, still echoing in his mind.

He considered the look of loss on Dolohov's face as the animals were slaughtered, and was sickened by the knowledge that the old man's grief would be based solely and unquestionably on the monetary loss of such well-bred, well-trained horses. And all for nothing. Dolohov was among the oldest, the most dedicatedly sadistic of Voldemort's followers – loyal almost to the point of enjoyment. But then, the same could be said of Severus himself, so the point was rather moot.

Such musings were futile just then, he knew. He had scant few hours before that morning's potions regiment, and it would do him well to cease his rumination in favor of more pressing needs. Namely, food, and the brewing of a quick pepper-up potion, if he had none in store.

It was all Severus could do not to set the Potions Classroom alight and watch them all die in the conflagration. Bloody, _useless_ third-years! Not that the rest of the forms were any better, but _Merlin_ how they tried his patience! He stalked back and forth among the sniveling ranks, glaring down his nose at the disastrous rainbow of potions. How difficult was the concept of "cerulean" to these feeble-minded ingrates? He looked at his instructions on the chalkboard at the head of class. Entirely legible. They had no excuse.

"If," he began, breaking his silence, and a small boy to his left squeaked and dropped a measuring glass, which shattered. Severus closed his eyes for a moment, composing himself. "If… your potion is not currently within the blue spectrum of the color wheel, and I see very few that are, you are finished. Clear your stations immediately and reread chapter six until the period ends. You will all receive zeros." The children did not even dare a sigh at this pronouncement. "For those of you that feel you may have come close to the assigned result, continue working." Severus flicked his wand at the ruined glassware as he passed, and it whisked itself into a dustbin. "The next Longbottom," he said to himself as he returned to his desk. "Of course."


	15. Cold Night, Hot Blood

At the end of the class, all of two potions out of 28 were deemed acceptable, and Severus dismissed the lot of them with a leaden irritation in his voice. They scurried out like so many rats under his gaze. Alone, Severus sat heavily into his chair, and closed his eyes. He had some time before his next class, but sleep did not come easily. He thought, not without irony, of the detriments of a talented mind: thoughts moving so fast across so many threads that he could find little rest in the opaque blackness of night in the dungeons, let alone in the midday bustle of work to be done – the student cacophony.

He heard a distant cough and started. Perhaps he had been dozing. Looking up to the door, he suppressed a long-suffering sigh.

"Miss Granger." He straightened himself. The bushy-haired girl moved quickly to her customary seat, early, as usual.

"Um," she cleared her throat, "are you all right, Professor?" Her eyes were fixed on her book bag as she began unpacking the class' necessities.

"Quite," he replied, both dismissing the question and discouraging any others that might spring from her over-active mind. She nodded, almost to herself, and remained quiet. The room was full less than fifteen minutes later, and Severus realized he must have dozed, indeed.

When Harry came in, Severus, his back turned, was recording the day's notes on the blackboard. He therefore missed the look of relief that passed over Harry's face at the sight of the Potions Master. It was brief, so brief that not even Harry recognized it, but it was there. Severus was no easier on the fifth years than he had been on the third, and the class passed in a charged, nervous silence, rife with unexpected sparks and smoke.

For Severus and Harry, dinner passed in much the same way: tense and electric in its quiet. Severus, eyes dark and scouring, sat at his usual place at the staff table, carefully avoiding the small talk that tended to be epidemic among the other faculty. He answered any inquiries with short, terse responses, and generally ignored everyone. He was tired and cross. Tired, yes, but not half tired enough to miss the tight, nervous lines of Harry's body, perched on one of the Gryffindor benches, surrounded by his entourage. Though the Gryffindor was looking resolutely at his plate, his body language was clear as day. Severus felt a stirring low in his body: Potter knew he was being watched, and he was afraid. And Severus itched to resolve the previous night's confrontation, from which he'd been so rudely snatched. He was, after all, loath to let anyone get away with the sort of disrespect he'd been shown.

Harry poked restlessly at his food. Though he didn't dare look up at the staff table, He hardly needed to. He could feel Snape's eyes on him, right between his shoulders. Merlin, that gaze was like ice on his skin. Ron elbowed him, but he didn't respond – didn't really care at all what the redhead had to say at the moment. All his attention was focused on _not looking_.

"Oi! Harry!" Ron elbowed him again, more forcefully. "What's the matter, mate? Need to clean out your ears?"

"What?" Harry snapped, finally. "I was just _thinking_, Ron. Maybe you should give it a try sometime." Hermione gave him a look from across the table, but said:

"I agree."

That took the attention back off of him better than Harry could have hoped, as the pair was yet again locked in a bickering duel. Harry turned his attention away, and, after his distraction, forgot why he wasn't looking at the staff table, and did just that. The lapse lasted only a moment, but in that moment, his green eyes were caught on black, and his blood ran fiercely, feverishly hot. And he had to get out into the air. Pride forced him to stand his ground a few minutes longer, heartbeat panic-fast, and skin itching for the cold relief of night air.

Severus snapped fully alert as Potter excused himself from his friends, and all but fled the hall. He caught only a brief moment of the boy's direction before the closing doors hid him, but it was enough to see he was not heading to Gryffindor tower. Perhaps the grounds… He drained his tea.

"Excuse me," he intoned solemnly to the table of professors. "I must be returning to work."

"Of course, of course," the insufferable Trelawney replied from his right hand. He hadn't been able to avoid sitting with her that night, having come late. "One's work is never done…" she trailed off, the old lunatic. Probably spiked her pumpkin juice with a tad too much whiskey.

Harry sank to his knees on the damp grass behind the greenhouses. The cold night air – for winter was coming on fast, and the sun had set nearly an hour before – soothed his overheated skin, and he gulped it down, not quite gasping, but not quite breathing either. He felt… he didn't know what he felt. But it was hot and heavy and smothered his breath like the crushing weight of a stone block. Putting his face in his hands, he missed the soft padding of boots across the grass until it was too late.

"Mr. Potter," Snape drawled. "Feeling ill, are we?"

Harry scrambled to his feet, the heaviness that had been somewhat relieved by the brief time alone dropping back into place, all the more devastating after the respite. He felt a familiar flash of panic block his thoughts, and struggled for words.

"Professor! I, uh, no I was just – " Luckily for him, or perhaps unluckily, Severus had no interest in whatever he was attempting to say.

"Please, Potter, did you really think I wanted that answered?" He wasted precious few seconds boxing Harry against the greenhouse glass; holding him in place with one slender hand, Head dipping to speak into his ear. "I must advise you not to draw attention to yourself," he started; voice low enough to raise the hairs on the back of Harry's neck. "You…provoke me."

Harry shook his head, closing his eyes.

"I – I didn't – didn't mea- oh, Merlin." Breath ghosted over his throat, followed by the tiniest suggestion of lips, and Harry's fingers scrabbled madly for purchase on the greenhouse wall, but it was glass, and offered no traction. But he wouldn't touch Snape… he couldn't. The pad of a thumb stroked over his bottom lip, and he squeezed his eyes shut, resisting the tingle of desire that spread from the touch.

"Potter."

It wasn't really a sound, Snape's voice. For how could a sound so easily strip Harry of every defiance?

"N-no. I can't." Can't…what? Open his eyes? Surrender himself? Stay on his feet? What? Harry didn't know. But he did know that this wasn't right: it wasn't him.

But… maybe that's why he was doing it. Harry opened his eyes. He looked up into the fearsomely focused gaze, zeroed in on him like an archer to a target, and was gripped by an insane urge. He didn't let it linger long enough to be examined, though, and simply acted.


	16. Of His Own Design

16

Of His Own Design

From a lesser man, the noise Severus made as he was yanked forward may have been called a yelp. As it stood, it was an unclassifiable, surprised, throaty noise that was muffled against Harry's mouth almost before it could take form.

The kiss that Severus had so purposefully denied the Gryffindor had just been taken. So shocked was he by this sudden forwardness, Harry's lips warm and demanding under his, that it took Severus a moment to regain his grip on the situation. When he did, it was to twist a hand into the Gryffindor's unruly hair and fist it, jerking Harry's head to the side. Control returned, and he kept it.

Harry's mouth yielded to him with a throaty mewl, and Severus raked his teeth across the soft lower lip, urging the sound louder, higher. He dragged Harry's head further to the side, deepening the kiss still more as the boy's hands clutched at his robefront, his shoulders, the back of his neck. Severus' leg slid sinuously between Harry's, eliciting a moan that the Potions Master could feel more than hear, and he chose that particular moment of response to jerk Harry's head back. The kiss broke, exposing the Gryffindor's white, vulnerable throat to the cold moonlight and the still dimmer illumination of the greenhouse. Harry gasped at the sharp pain in his scalp and then again as Severus' teeth bit at his Adams apple.

"Did I _say_ you could kiss me, whelp?" Snape demanded, lip curled up in a snarl. Harry's nails dug into the back of his neck as the boy panted out the only response he could muster:

"No, Sir." The submissive answer was exquisitely punctuated by an involuntary shudder, starting up where Severus' fist clutched his hair and traveling all the way through him to his toes, which curled. He was undeniably, humiliatingly hard, and there was little chance Snape couldn't feel it, pressed together as they were.

"You have yet to learn your lesson in humility, I see." This pronouncement, whispered sensually into Harry's ear, hardly registered as having any meaning at all to the Gryffindor, who could do nothing but stare blindly up at the night sky, desperately willing his body to control itself or – or Snape to just _touch_ him or _something_.

"_Professor_," Harry whimpered, "_please_." And, Severus noted with pleasure, it was a whimper, undoubtedly. He relaxed his death-grip on the wild black hair just slightly, and leaned over the boy, far enough away to affirm his control over the situation, but close enough to tease. Harry's lips parted expectantly, like a parched man presented with a goblet of the finest wine, but Severus did not take the invitation.

"You," he murmured, lips just ghosting over Harry's, "will retrieve your cloak. You will come to my chambers. You. Will not. Be seen. Are we clear, Mr. Potter?" Harry's throat worked, Adams apple bobbing, and licked his lips.

"Crystal," he replied hoarsely, and Severus nearly caught those flushed lips again, but decided instead to let the boy wait, and whirled away, back towards the castle and into the night.

Harry, lips tingling with unfulfilled promises and the lingering, belated first kiss, leaned heavily on the panes of glass behind him for a moment. He would have liked to compose himself before risking a dash up to his dormitory, but knew it would be a futile effort. He would simply have to rely on speed and the fact that nearly everyone would still be at dinner. Yes, he shouldn't dally. With a deep, steadying breath, he left the dim glow of the greenhouse window, through which Neville Longbottom could just be seen behind the curving tendrils of a Flitterbloom, mouth agape, a pair of bulbs clutched forgotten in his hands.

The dungeon door creaked as it swung open, and through his invisibility cloak Harry saw Snape leaning causally against his desk, dressed in his shirtsleeves, waiting. Harry swallowed. Snape seemed to look right at him, and drawled.

"Don't be frightened, Potter." Harry took a steadying breath, approached the desk, and pulled the cloak from his shoulders. Severus pushed himself up from his desk, looked Harry up and down, and raised a hand to his face. Trailing his fingers down Harry's still-flushed cheek, he searched the clear eyes. The little whelp had kissed him – in all but public. Had Severus somewhere fallen short of the necessary amount of dominance? He hadn't thought so. But then, he had certainly not anticipated the kiss either. And Severus did not like surprises.

Harry shivered at the soft touch. It was a gesture almost… tender in its gentleness, and that made him nervous. He averted his eyes.

"Come," Severus said, removing his hand, and moved toward the hidden entrance to his chamber. Harry lagged, a lingering thought returning to him. When he'd asked before, Snape had said 'another time.' Now was another time.

"What were you whispering?" Harry asked Snape's back. The Potions Master paused, and half turned with a questioning look. "In- in your dream," Harry clarified, and Snape smirked, remembering the earlier instance of the same question. Now was as good an opportunity as ever, he thought, and withdrew the wand from his sleeve in one subtle, fluid movement. To Harry it seemed as if it had simply appeared there, and he felt a thrill at the prospect of the curiosity being solved.

"Ah, Mr. Potter… an incantation or two of my own design, I believe." Severus turned fully, and moved to stand before Harry. Gracefully, he drew the tip of his wand across Harry's jaw, as if it were an extension of his own fingertips, and vaguely echoed the fantasy he knew the boy was recounting in his head. "Feeling… curious?" Severus' voice rumbled sensuously from his throat.

Goosebumps fleshed out on Harry's skin at the tone, and his voice fled. So he settled for a shaky, uncertain nod. Curious was one word for it, he supposed. Severus' mouth quirked up at the corner, he himself rather curious as to the reaction he was about to create.

"Very well." The Potions Master leveled his wand at Harry's chest, and the Gryffindor had to resist the impulse to back away, or otherwise protect himself. But not for long. Snape's magical murmuring was unintelligible through the sudden rush of blood in Harry's ears. And with the noise, came a feeling. Like a hand reaching inside him... manipulating something.

"_God_." Snape caught him under the arms.

"Wait for it, Potter," he said, and let the Gryffindor fall against the wall for support. "Wait…" Harry's chest heaved. His vision danced with spots. He couldn't possibly comprehend what else could happen – but just then, something did.

"_O-oh_ – Merlin – " Harry's hands clutched the stone masonry frantically. Suddenly, like a flipped switch, everything was hyper-intense. The air in each breath set his nerves alight, the uneven stones against his back hurt so exquisitely… His flesh was on fire, every sense overwhelmingly focused on the sexual. And Snape's hand where it was braced on his arm was like a locus for it all.


	17. Exsensus Beneplaceo

17

Exsensus Beneplaceo

"There it is," Snape said, reaching out and testing the spell's development, scratching his fingernails across the back of Harry's neck. The sharp points of sensation hit the Gryffindor like ecstasy. He arched helplessly into it, and Snape murmured a gravelly, "yes," before catching him up in a kiss. This meeting of lips, their second, Harry thought distantly, was infinitely more arousing than the first (something he would have thought impossible only thirty seconds before). Teeth raked over his lip, a hand pulled his hair. The sensations were familiar, but multiplied a hundred fold, and Harry was awash in it: devastatingly aroused. He couldn't for the life of him comprehend the electricity that spiderwebbed from every point of contact – every inch of Professor Snape pressed against him – but then, he didn't have to. The spell, whatever it was, was certainly not conducive to thought. Severus bit into his neck, and Harry felt dizzy with stimulation, breath coming far too fast for any oxygen to reach his brain and do any good. But, somewhere within the tornado of nerves his body had become, there was the impression of possibility.

"_More_," Harry keened, hands fisting in black cotton, urging Snape closer, closer. Severus was flooded with heat at the sound, even as his arousal peaked at the mere sight of Potter so beleaguered – begging for him.

"How much?" he demanded harshly, grabbing Harry's hips and pulling them flush against him. Harry's vision tunneled, colors fading to a minimalist grey as the tactile surged.

"…What?"

Leaning down, Severus bit into Harry's earlobe before repeating himself at a hiss:

"How. Much. More?" Seeker-nimble fingers clawed at him, young hips thrusting in arousal.

Harry's eyes, heavy-lidded when they met his, were nearly eclipsed by wide, black pupils. His voice was shaky, but certain, in the way only one totally out of his mind could be. Intoxicating.

"Anything," Harry said, and pulled their mouths back together for one volatile moment, before Severus broke away, dragging his lips back up to Harry's ear. He would not deny the request.

"Trust me," he whispered. The span of a single breath passed, and then, "_Crucio_." Harry's heart stutter-stepped in the millisecond it took for the spell to hit him.

His body arched like a drawn bow. He'd experienced the Cruciatus before, yes, but this…the pain – it wasn't…. it wasn't right. Shocks surged through him, pinpricks and scratches and burns that stripped across his nerves and shot right past pain and into something else. Something that coiled like a fiery serpent in his stomach and made his every muscle go taut.

Severus knew the experience. The… unique effect of his incantation - _Exsensus Beneplaceo_ - and the Cruciatus in combination had been discovered (quite by accident) on him, after all. He knew the mad dichotomy of feeling – skinned alive yet in rapture – the excruciating euphoria. Harry's eyes rolled to the whites.

His mind was drowned black: awash in Snape's darkness, Snape's cruel precision, body a chaos of pleasure with Snape's spells.

Noting the signs of impending unconsciousness, Severus lifted the Cruciatus with a jerk of his hand, and Harry collapsed limply against him, mouth open and gasping, breath coming fast and heavy. The Gryffindor panted for a time, then, using Severus' shirt to pull himself upright, looked into the dark, inscrutable eyes of the Potions Master. And at that moment, they were the most pitiless, beautiful things Harry had ever seen.

Severus started at the unnaturally luminous, uneven green of Harry's irises. One pupil was tiny, the other wide. It gave him a crazed look, one that was not ill suited in such an innocent face.

"Again," Harry murmured, voice a mere husk, and pushed himself up for another kiss, moaning low in his throat at the brush of tongues.

"I think not," Severus replied, once able. Harry's eyes flashed.

"Professor!" The boy was not asking, nor begging, but _telling_ him. Severus' temper flickered.

"Potter I will hardly r-" but Severus broke off mid-word. Had that been…? Yes.

Three short knocks on his lab door. Snape clapped a hand over Harry's mouth at once, and jerked them behind an armoire, trapping him there with a firm arm around the chest.

"Don't make a sound," he hissed. Unfortunately for stealth, The Gryffindor was still senseless with the effects of Snape's primary incantations, and the voice in his ear, the hand over his mouth, and the body pressed against his back only made him whimper and twist. "Shhh!" Snape insisted.

And then, through the thick haze in his mind Harry heard it too: another trio of taps. But it was meaningless to him in that state. The only things of any importance at the moment were the sinuous length of Snape pressed against him, and the hard bulge at the small of his back. And, of course, the all-encompassing desire to be touched.

The hinges squeaked out a warning as the door was cracked open, and the pair was hidden from its view, but only just.

"Severus?" called a pleasant, aged voice.

'_Albus? Gods be damned could there be a worse moment?!_' Snape raged, silently. Harry was twisting and arching in his arms, grabbing at his legs, bunching the fabric in frantic fists. Severus tried to hold him faster, but to no avail. Harry was set on rubbing back against him, even as the headmaster called out again.

"Severus my boy, I know you're in here somewhere!"

Why was he here? For the love of Merlin, why? Harry's breath huffed hot against his hand, and Severus choked back a moan at the friction the boy was inflicting on him.

"I was hoping to get your report on the recent gathering!"

Oh, of course. Severus had been Called and had yet to account for the reason. How hadn't he anticipated this? Severus, mind flying, shot over possible ways out of this potentially horrendous situation. But Potter's over-heated body and barely audible mewlings easily derailed each even as they occurred to him. Perhaps Albus would just go away. Or perhaps this was his last day in the castle. He was too valuable to banish entirely, of course, but whisked away from the school? Quite probable.

"Severus!" Dumbledore called out again, and began to hum to himself. Snape heard the soft clinks of a vial being picked up, inspected, and replaced. Of course, Albus. Please make yourself at home.


	18. Slighted Responsibilities

18

Slighted Responsibilities

Severus felt a bit like a teenager again – hiding illicit behavior from the headmaster. Of course, the stakes were a bit higher in this instance. His youthful crimes of filching potions supplies (and even his first dallyings with the rising ranks of Deatheaters) paled in comparison to his current transgressions under the Headmaster's nose.

Harry twisted his head and looked back up at him, barely focusing. The boy's eyebrows were furrowed in confusion, his face flushed and unguarded. Severus tightened his grip and, narrowing his eyes, met the look with as harsh a stare as he could muster. If Potter was unaware of the situation (which was highly likely: Severus recalled his own encounters with the _Exsensus_ spell as entirely tactile experiences – nothing of sight, sound or situation having even penetrated his awareness), then Severus would have to pray that the boy's faculties were not so impaired that he would be unable to respond to such a look with obedience.

"Hmmm," Albus sighed, sounding mercifully fed up with the lack of response to his calls. "Very well then." Severus heard a few whispered incantations and then, he could hardly believe his good fortune, footsteps approaching the door. He held his breath, forcing Potter to do the same, as the footsteps paused, shuffled, and then echoed out the door, to be punctuated with the whoosh – thunk of it swinging closed.

In silence, a beat passed, then two, before Severus let out his breath and released Harry from his grip. The Gryffindor stumbled forward drunkenly as Snape pushed passed him. Immediately sealing the door, Severus doled out at least four more defensive charms than were strictly necessary, then, offhandedly, two more. That would not happen again while he still breathed.

"Merlin help me," Snape muttered to himself as he completed the precautions that should, for obvious reasons, have been taken _before_ he'd begun. "I'm losing my touch." An incongruous scrap of white paper on his desk caught his eye, and he snatched it up. A note from Dumbledore, conjured as the headmaster left.

_Severus, _

_Please meet me in my office at your earliest convenience._

_- AD_

Cordial enough. Nothing written lent itself to interpretation otherwise. He gave a sigh of relief. But the sound was not long-lived. For, before it had been fully exhaled, Severus sucked it back in surprise. Young hands slid around his waist and into his un-tucked shirt, gripping the cloth from the inside, just as a hot body pressed against his back.

"Professor," Harry murmured, almost slurring his words beyond recognition. "You can't leave me like this."

Severus disengaged the hands and turned. Yes, that would be too cruel. To be left under the sway of _Exsensus Beneplaceo_, alone and untouched, would be torturous. _Was_ torturous, as Severus was privy to know. And, of course, the adrenaline rush caused by their near-discovery had done nothing to diminish his own arousal.

"Wouldn't dream of it, Mr. Potter," Severus replied, and slid a hand behind Harry's neck. The Gryffindor's knees nearly gave way at the contact, and Severus hummed in approval, letting Dumbledore and his penchant for interference fall away from his mind. The _Exsensus _was exceptionally well developed. Perhaps something about the over-stimulation followed abruptly by total denial had effected the spell's progression. An interesting thought, but not one particularly engaging when Potter's hands were clutching his shirtfront in desperation and pulling him down.

The kiss was eager and fervent, and Severus forced it to slow, banking it back from roaring fire to smoldering coals – all the hotter for their restraint. And then Potter's legs did give way, and Severus caught him again.

"Bed," the boy panted against his neck. "Please, please just – " Harry almost finished: 'just make it stop,' but then, he didn't really mean that. He didn't want it to stop, he wanted it to _finish_, and Severus hardly needed to read Harry's mind to see such things.

"By all means."

The smooth sheets of Severus' bed felt deliciously like sandpaper against Harry's bare chest. And Severus' grip at the base of his cock (consequently, the only thing keeping him from coming immediately) was like a steel band. He sobbed nonsense, clutching the headboard with one hand, the other fisted against his mouth, as Severus doled out a particularly brutal thrust. Even that small pain – his teeth digging into his knuckles – was magnified and twisted beyond reason.

Severus gripped the willing body beneath him without mercy. It was more of an experiment now than anything else, his restriction of the Gryffindor's orgasm. For a body under the sway of the _Exsensus, _it had been longer than eternity, and the quiveringly-taut curve of Potter's spine projected that most artistically. However, as Severus felt his own peak threatening, he abandoned the experiment and took pity on the overwrought boy, relaxing the tight ring of his fist. One more thrust, two, and Severus' release rushed through him, just as Potter gave one final, drawn-out wail, and jerked still as stone.

Time stopped as Harry's orgasm finally struck. His tunneled vision closed to total darkness at last, and, as the _Exsensus_ lifted, numbness cooled him. Relief, at last, and the sweet obscurity of oblivion.

Severus rested his head between Harry's shoulder blades for a moment, recovering. The boy had completely lost consciousness. His every muscle flexed and tensed one moment, loose as a length of string the next. Severus pulled out with a grunt and rolled off to the side and, though feeling the vague lapping of sleep at his mind as well, resisted. He could not afford the luxury. After all, he had a meeting to attend "at his earliest convenience," which meant, of course, as soon as humanly possible, convenient or not. And he'd already disobeyed that order by at least an hour. Mulling over that fact, Severus realized he'd lost the greater part of his evening. Not unpleasantly, of course, but wasted nonetheless. He stretched languidly on the bed, his back and shoulders popping, before giving the unconscious Potter a parting look, and getting up.

Once clean and redressed in full robes, Severus applied the same attention to the unconscious Gryffindor. In a few moments the boy was reasonably presentable (or at least inconspicuous), and Severus draped him with the invisibility cloak. A simple levitation spell got him most stealthily to the library, where Severus whisked off the cloak and set Harry artfully in an armchair, insuring he would be found not long after curfew. This task complete, he set his course to the headmaster's office.


	19. Decisions, Decisions

19

Decisions, Decisions

Despite Dumbledore's known proficiency in Legillimency, it wasn't hard for Severus to explain away his apparent absence from his rooms. After all, it was Severus' lot to be always busy, and often elusive. Dumbledore didn't dwell on the point either, to Severus' minor relief, and talk soon turned to more pressing matters.

"He knows there is a spy, Albus. He is looking for the leak." Dumbledore idly fingered a magical device of some sort as Severus spoke. There was a pause, as Snape looked at the old man's idle hands, and finished, "For me."

"And what have they found out?"

"As far as I've seen? Nothing of relevance. The last accused was Dolohov, for Merlin's sake. Perhaps the least likely suspect out of them all." That really didn't mean anything, of course, but Severus thought it prudent to say. Dumbledore's gaze was uncharacteristically steely, without the usual twinkle, as the old man listened to this report. But then, Severus personally believed that the sparkle in Albus' eyes was, more often than not, contrived. It encouraged blind trust, that lighthearted gaze, and Severus liked to think he was now, after all the years, immune. Albus opened his mouth to speak, but Severus was quick to preempt the coming offers of extra protection, or, Merlin help him, time off.

"But it's hardly a new development. The Dark Lord has never been trusting. He is ever-scouring the ranks for dissent and betrayal. There's nothing to imply he's been made aware of any real threat." And that wasn't entirely true either. The Dark Lord had never been so keen on wild-goose chases as he had been for the past weeks. Severus shifted impatiently as Albus spoke again.

"This is no matter to take lightly, Severus. I would highly suggest –"

"Of course not, Albus." He stood resolutely. "I have taken, and will take, every precaution available. At the moment, however, I would appreciate your dismissal. I have work still to attend to."

Dumbledore hesitated, as if to deny Severus' request, but in the end, sighed and nodded. The Potions Master turned on his heel.

"Good evening, Headmaster."

"And you, Severus." But the door had already closed.

In the Gryffindor common room, the student body was loudly congregated, as they often were in the late evening. It was just long enough after dinner for any sleepy digestion to be taken care of, but still early enough for the younger students to be socializing instead of sleeping. In front of one fireplace, a bushy-haired girl and a redheaded boy were bent over a pair of scrolls. Ron had argued that they wait for Harry before going over their most recent potions essays, but as it got later, had relented to simply getting on with it. He could always fill Harry in later.

"Honestly, Ron, you've spelt "Wolfsbane" wrong over twenty times!"

Huddled in an armchair some way away, another young Gryffindor also appeared to be doing homework. He, however, was not actually reading the herbology text clutched in his hands. There really would be no reason to. Neville knew most of the book entirely by heart, and had for weeks. As he stared at the miniscule print, then, he was focused on an entirely different issue: mulling over his own absurd imagination. What he'd seen, _thought_ he'd seen, had to have been in his mind. After all, the world was mostly a logical place, and what he had seen didn't belong in the same universe as logic. He went over it again in his head, attempting futilely to conjure some sense out of an absolutely absurd memory.

He'd been attending to some winter bulbs in the greenhouses during dinner (which he'd skipped due to an embarrassing incident of forgotten password coupled with a cruel Slytherin prank, the aftermath of which he didn't fancy suffering any time soon). Just as he had been transplanting a particularly large pair, he'd seen a shadowy figure approaching out of the corner of his eye. The light had been very limited, but a bit had glinted off the figure's glasses. 'Harry.' Neville had thought. But had he _seen_ that it was Harry? Had he seen the figure's face? Neville couldn't decide. And what had happened within moments of the figure sitting down on the grass was highly suggestive that the person had absolutely _not _been Harry.

Professor Snape, Neville had seen. There was little mistaking the Potions Master's hook-nosed profile, even in silhouette.

Now, Neville was fairly certain that even if the first figure hadn't been Harry, it had been a student. A student whom, as Neville watched, had been pushed up against the glass and… and… molested.

Neville shook his head absently. Maybe that wasn't the right word. The student had, at least from Neville's vantage point, pulled Professor Snape into a kiss (Neville's mind balked at the very image). But, did it matter who instigated such behavior? Snape was a teacher, for Merlin's sake. Wasn't that against the law? Or, at the very least, the school's code of conduct? It had to be. It was wrong, to take advantage of a place of power like that. So… what to do?

And that brought back his initial concern of the first figure's identity. So… it couldn't have been Harry, could it? That was just… silly. Maybe Neville had simply inhaled some psychoactive pollen and imagined the whole thing. That was possible, wasn't it? At least as possible as Professor Snape and Harry illicitly snogging in the shadows of the castle. Right?

"Mr. Potter!" a shrill, unpleasantly loud voice sounded in Harry's ear.

"M'up, Aunt Petunia," he murmured sleepily.

"Mr. Potter I am not your Aunt!"

Harry tried to burrow his face into his pillow, only to find that his pillow was about as soft as a tabletop. He opened one heavy eye, and saw at once that his pillow was, in fact, just that. Jerking upright, he knocked soundly into the irate Madame Pince, who jumped back, dropping an armload of scrolls. She huffed indignantly.

"Sorry!" Harry exclaimed, and moved to help her pick up the scattered parchment, but she waved him off.

"It is fifteen minutes after curfew! I suggest you return to your dorm post-haste!" Harry glanced around the dark library for another moment, getting his bearings. "Post-haste," the librarian said again, clutching her armload and whisking away. Harry stood gingerly, wary of the weakness in his muscles. He cast one longing look back at the armchair before setting off. He did _not_ fancying traversing the flights of stairs between himself and his bed at the moment. But there was nothing for it. Something caught on his foot as he left, and he looked down to see it was his cloak. With a cursory glance to make sure Madame Pince was not still lurking nearby, he shrugged it on, grateful for the freedom of invisibility. After all, he hadn't checked himself in the mirror yet… who knew what sorts of marks he may have been given. And, somehow, that had become a normal concern.


	20. Pieces of the Puzzle

20

Pieces of the Puzzle

In actual fact, Severus got very little work done when he left the Headmaster's office. Instead, he slept: long and soundly, with dreams so untroubling he could hardly recall them upon awaking the next morning. This was an unusual blessing for Severus. The things he'd seen and done in his lifetime were not easily forgotten, not even in sleep. At least, Severus thought, what had been his most immediately threatening dreams (those of the young Potter, laid bare beneath him, of course), were no longer so much of a problem.

It was once again Friday. Meaning, of course, Potter's day for tutoring as an Occlumens. Severus sighed at the prospect as he got out of bed. It truly was becoming quite a daunting task. And one, he knew, that would actually need to be seen through to a reasonable level of completeness. And interrupting each session half way through to fight or fuck (or both) was really rather impeding progress.

Potter needed to learn. But more pleasurable lessons kept taking precedence over the mundane (important) ones. Not that riffling through Potter's mind wasn't enjoyable, of course, simply that Severus' perusal of the more interesting memories therein inevitably lead to total disintegration of the learning environment. Whether that disintegration took the form of a violent outburst or a sexual encounter depended on the way Potter had first been provoked. All interesting knowledge to have acquired, but none helpful to the all-important Cause. And, at the heart of it all, Severus _was_ dedicated to the Cause, the Order, and the general downfall of the Dark Lord. Which was why he simply couldn't, in good conscience, continue to use his allotted tutoring period for sport.

Though subduing the eventual desire to do just that was sure to be unpleasant.

Little did he know (or care, of course), that Harry was slipping in other academic areas as well. His general coursework had absolutely plummeted – nary a complete assignment to be found – during the past weeks. Minerva McGonagall, in particular, was getting rather concerned as the first semester came to a close. She began watching Harry a little closer, looking for signs of stress-exhaustion or depression. Such things were all too understandable for a boy with such a heavy burden, and needed to be headed off. Harry was too important.

Minerva had been teaching teenagers for more years than she cared to count, and Harry Potter was the first one she'd yet met who could truly say, without exaggeration, that the world was on his shoulders. Every run-of-the-mill adolescent thinks, at one time or another, that no one understands his troubles. Harry was not a run-of-the-mill teenager, and such a statement, should he make it, would be undeniably true. And so she watched him in class. She watched him at meals. She watched him with his friends.

Harry didn't realize he was drawing attention to himself, of course. He hardly thought about his homework at all anymore, and therefore didn't worry about not doing it, either. It had all started to seem so pointless. He wasn't a schoolboy, he was a figurehead. A symbol. An object, as he was so often reminded. But, Harry rationalized, if he were to be an object, it would be on his terms. And so, he went to Severus – again and again and again.

Luck would have it, however, that Minerva could not watch him when he was invisible. She therefore had to assume that he was asleep in his bed when, more often than not, he was digging his nails into the back of a pale, corded neck. She had to assume he was safely in dreamland while he was moaning and arching against a desk, a wall, or a bed, and being left with bruises far to real to have been dreamt.

After all, how could she know such things? Harry's two most useful possessions - his cloak and map - were with him always, now. And even as the well-meaning head of Gryffindor house did her rounds, two black dots labeled Severus Snape and Harry Potter were incriminatingly overlapped within the curled edges of the Marauder's Map. How was she to know what was keeping Harry from his homework? Mischief managed, indeed.

Similarly, how was Neville Longbottom to know what he had really seen? And Albus Dumbledore? What reason could he have to question Severus' apparent absence from his rooms? How could any of them know how far Severus had overstepped his boundaries – or how much Harry was being changed by it all?

The first day of Christmas Holidays, it was raining. The wind whistled through the castle, forlorn and piercing as the cries of Moaning Myrtle, but nothing so unpleasant could rouse Harry from the comfort of his bed on this, his first day free of classes. He stretched languidly, feeling only a slight protest from his often-screaming muscles, and thought of a nice, hot shower before breakfast. He looked to the other beds in his dorm, and was grateful to see that he was the last to get up. He was alone.

Showering had become a bit of a challenge in his day-to-day, due entirely to the ever-renewing marks Snape supplied him with. At first, they had been restricted largely to his neck and shoulders. But lately, they had spread to wherever Severus could easily reach. His chest, beside his navel, his hipbones, thighs… It was becoming a daily trial hiding them. But, a boy had to bathe, and it was as good a time as ever, so he roused himself from the languid comfort of a late Saturday morning, and padded to the lavatory, wrapped protectively in a dressing gown.

The hot water felt divine on his skin as the heat sank luxuriously into his only mildly sore muscles. He thought vaguely of the agony of his shower after that first night with Professor Snape. Stretching experimentally, Harry realized just how _un-_sore he was. Not that he'd been treated gently the last time, by any measure. The bruise on his cheekbone was a testament to that. He was simply getting used to it.

Harry shuddered at that thought, and it coiled subtly into arousal at the base of his spine. His thoughts turned to Snape himself, shying away from the implications of his body's adaptation to such harsh treatment.

The Potions Master wasn't a handsome man. He wasn't 'pretty' or 'sexy' at all. Harry had to snort at the thought of anyone thinking such a thing, let alone saying so. They'd be locked up for sure. What Professor Snape _was_, though, was powerful. It radiated off the man in waves. And his voice… the hairs on the back of Harry's neck prickled up at the mere thought of it, despite the hot water streaming down his skin. That voice, in the proper tone, could make '_pay attention, Mr. Potter_,' sound like '_get on your knees._'

Before Harry could properly think about it, his hand was between his legs, slick with shampoo, Snape's voice firmly in his mind. It had become so natural, to think of Snape this way, that he could hardly remember ever conjuring anyone else in his fantasies. The thought of getting off to anyone but the Potions Master had become almost absurd.

He did have to be very careful not to… moan anything untoward, though, lest someone hear him. It just wouldn't do to have a passing Gryffindor hear an impassioned cry of "Professor!" from the showers, even if they didn't know _which_ professor. Didn't matter, really, they were all technically off-limits. But perhaps it was best that he not even _think_ of Professor Snape as 'Severus.' Merlin knew what would happen to him if the name ever slipped out in the man's presence. He could just picture it: The Potions Master, grabbing his hair with one long hand, wrenching his head back, hissing into his ear:

'_What did you call me?_'

Harry bit into his fist, forcing back a moan.

Some time later, satisfied with his morning wank, Harry surreptitiously stuck his head out of the bathroom. No one was there that he could see, so he dashed over to his trunk, and pulled out his clothes.


	21. Mixed Signals

21

Mixed Signals

Neville paced in the Gryffindor common room. Should he confront Harry? It was so colossally unlikely that there was any reason to… but the not-knowing was tearing him apart. And Gran was insisting he return for Christmas this year. She thought Hogwarts was too dangerous – as if anywhere else in the whole country wasn't _more _dangerous than the castle. Neville thought he'd go crazy, spending the entire holiday away, without having done anything to resolve the situation. He would. He'd go crazy. That resolved it.

Neville opened the door to the dormitory just as Harry was pulling his shirt over his head.

"Hey Harry I- "

"Neville!" Harry yelped as he hastily jerked his shirt down over his exposed stomach, nearly tangling himself in it. "…Hey." There was a shocked pause. '_He didn't see. He didn't see. He didn't_.' Neville's expression neutralized, mercifully.

"Hey, I was just going down to eat, you wanna come?" he asked. Harry breathed a silent sigh of relief. What an unbearably close call. There were at least three, _three_ marks between his collarbone and hips.

"Oh. Yeah, sure. Give me a few minutes," he managed, and gave a friendly smile.

"Sure." Neville turned on his heal and left the room, closing the door behind him, and Harry sat heavily on his bed, with a resolution to be more careful with his dressing habits in the future. This whole business was likely to give him a heart attack before he came of age.

Neville stood in the hallway, shocked.

"Okay, okay," he muttered to himself. "That doesn't prove anything." But that had been the darkest hickey Neville had ever seen. Even the tiny glimpse he'd gotten had left no questions as to what it was. Getting, say, hit in the stomach with something just didn't leave that sort of mark. But it didn't mean anything. Maybe Harry just had a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend. Or _something_. It didn't mean that Harry… with Snape… it just didn't necessarily mean that. Even if that's how it was really starting to look. But it was still damned impossible!

Just then, though, he was struck with an idea. If anyone knew whether Harry had a girl/boyfriend, even a secret one, it would be Ron and Hermione. So off to the great hall he went, in search of a concrete answer or two. He only prayed the answer would be 'yes.'

Thankfully, Ron and Hermione were sitting together, bickering as usual. Neville made a b-line for them.

"Hey, guys," he started, attempting to break up their little spat. It sounded something like a complaint of Hermione's study schedule. Trivial though the argument was, they didn't seem to hear him. "Hey!" Nothing. "Oi! You guys!!"

"What?" Hermione asked suddenly, exasperated. Her face was bright with indignation, and Neville faltered under her clear annoyance. How Ron could keep exacerbating it was beyond him. Hermione was just _scary_ when she was mad.

"Hey, I was just wondering…." He trailed off. "um…" Hermione's face softened.

"What is it? Is something the matter?" she asked, and Ron sighed in irritation. Why couldn't she treat _him_ like that?

"No, no," Neville answered, though he thought there probably was something very, very the matter. "I was just wondering, does – does Harry have a… girlfriend?" The pair stared at him; looked at each other for a moment, then back again. Neville shifted uncomfortably.

"No," they replied together.

"Why?" Hermione added and, under her scrutinizing eye, Neville realized that maybe that was an odd question for him to ask.

"Oh, no reason," he answered awkwardly. So, no girlfriend. But he didn't dare ask about a boyfriend at the moment. And, after all, if Harry did have one, they probably would have mentioned it. He filed the information away. "Well, I've got to get going. Gran always wants me to pack a few days before I leave so I have more time to remember things I've forgotten. You know." He stood, and waved with forced cheer. "Bye guys!"

"Bye Neville."

"Bye Mate."

As he left, Hermione and Ron looked at each other in confusion, their argument forgotten entirely.

"Well," Hermione said. "That was odd." But Ron didn't have a chance to reply, as just then he caught sight of their missing third friend.

"G'morning," Harry said.

"Good afternoon," Hermione corrected. Then, with humor, "Sleep well?" Harry laughed. He _had _overdone the whole vacation-sleeping-in thing, he supposed.

"Yeah, thanks. Hey," he looked around. "Where's Neville?" Ron and Hermione shared another glance.

"You just missed him, mate," Ron said, and raised his eyebrows. "Why?"

"Oh, no reason. Just thought he'd be here 's all."

"Right."

Three days later, Neville was on the train back to London, feeling very dissatisfied with the state of his mystery. The answer was staring him in the face, of course, but he refused to see it. After all, Harry was his friend, and a normal teenage boy. And therefore, could not have been _sucked on_ by Professor Snape. And that was that.

Harry was reclining on the couch in front of a roaring fire, idly watching the first snow of the season fall on the grounds, when Hermione cornered him.

"Hey Harry," she said, sitting beside him. "Can we talk for a second?" Harry sat up at once, his heart jumping into his throat. But he forced himself to relax. There was no way she could know anything. Best not to give her any clues by freaking out. He settled himself, and forced a calm, level answer.

"Sure, 'Mione. What's going on?" She dropped her voice confidentially, though Harry noted with nervousness that they were alone.

"Listen, Harry, there's nothing wrong with it, I mean, I care about you, I'm just wondering…" well, that proved she wasn't talking about anything that was actually happening, as no one Harry knew would have describes his doings as "nothing wrong." "Harry, are you seeing Neville?" She suddenly blurted, and Harry could only stare at her dumbly.

"Seeing him do what?" he asked. Hermione sighed.

"Are you and Neville, you know, together?" She laid a hand on his shoulder.

Harry choked on the breath he'd been halfway through taking. He was almost too shocked to answer. Almost.

"Am I WHAT?"

"It's alright if you are, Harry, I mean, I'll love you no matter what and I just –"

"No, for the love of Merlin, I have NOT been 'seeing' Neville! Why in the world would you even ask that?" What an absolutely bizarre idea. And Harry had been _worried_ at the beginning of this conversation. "What could possibly lead you to believe that I – "

Hermione cut him off by hooking one finger in his collar and pulling it aside. She looked pointedly at the mark revealed. Harry's heart sank. How – when had she seen it? But then, another absurd thought overrode his momentary horror at her discovery.

"You think Neville gave me that? _Neville Longbottom_?" Finally, Hermione looked sheepish.

"Well I…" she seemed to think for a moment. "I guess that does seem a bit unlike him."


	22. Important Points

22

Important Points

"Does it?" Harry asked incredulously, torn between wanting to totally derail the conversation away from where it could still lead, and continuing a discussion of just how illogical (and frankly insulting) it was to think that he'd been snogging Neville Longbottom. "Seriously, Hermione? _Seriously_?"

"Well, it's just that – you've seemed so distracted, and Neville, he asked Ron and me whether you were taken the other day and," she stopped mid-thought at his expression, flushing with embarrassment. "Look, I just thought…"

Harry dissolved into peals of laughter.

"That I – I was," he gasped and guffawed with some mix of horror and hilarity, and couldn't even finish his sentence. Hermione fought a smile. Maybe it _was_ silly.

"Well I'm sorry," she said, starting to laugh despite herself, "but you _do_ have a bite mark on your neck."

"Well, Neville certainly didn't give it to me!" Harry replied, beside himself with laughter. "I mean, really!" Catching his breath, it took Hermione's next question for Harry to realize what he'd said.

"So, who did?" There was still mirth in her voice, but interest too, and Harry stalled, clearing his throat.

"Um," how was he to answer that? "Look, Hermione, I don't…"

"What?" she prompted.

"I don't want to talk about it," he finished lamely. Well, he didn't. That was the truth.

"But Harry, I'm your friend," she insisted. "And I apologize for assuming I knew." Harry sighed, and felt laughter threaten again at the thought, but fought it back.

"Please, Hermione, I deserve a personal life, don't I?" she looked hurt, but he continued. "So please, please don't get involved in it. And please," he paused for emphasis. "Please don't spread rumors about me and Neville." Hermione grinned a little, but still seemed dissatisfied.

"But Harry," she started, replacing her hand on his shoulder.

"Look, if I ever need advice, or help, or anything like that, I'll come to you first. But please, I've already got enough attention on me. The less people that know about some things, the better, right?" If that wasn't true, he didn't know what truth was.

"I suppose you're right," she sighed. "But promise me you'll tell me eventually." Harry met her eyes with put-on sincerity.

"I promise, 'Mione." No he didn't.

That night, at the appointed time for his weekly Occlumency lessons, Harry burst into the Potions classroom in a rage.

"Do you have to bruise me?" he shouted. "Do you have to make it _so obvious_?" He rubbed a hand over the mark on his neck, frustrated and scared by the series of near-discoveries he'd had to endure. The confrontation with Hermione had torn it- things had to change.

Snape regarded him as a teacher might regard a particularly truant student.

"We don't even get to begin today, hmm?" he asked, and set aside his quill and parchment.

"If you weren't so rough with me, I wouldn't have to be so damned paranoid every day. They'll know, Professor! I can't hide these forever!" He pulled aside his collar just as Hermione had, but Snape seemed unimpressed.

"Don't tell me you can't talk your way out of a few teethmarks," he drawled, then tsked softly. "Have you learned nothing?" Harry flushed at the dismissive tone. Didn't he realize what was at stake?

"Don't be so flippant!" the Gryffindor snapped, without thinking. As soon as the words escaped his mouth, he knew he'd just made a leap of faith over the line of obedience he'd been toeing. A mistake? Most certainly.

Severus stood. A lesson it would be, then. And one long overdue.

"Would you prefer, Mr. Potter," he began, and strode smoothly over to the boy, "that I…make love to you?" he gently brushed a lock of hair away from Harry's eyes, acting out a possible tenderness, and Harry's anger drained away. "That I greet and dismiss you with a kiss?" Harry looked confused by the question, unsure. Severus brushed the back of his knuckles against Harry's cheek, traced his lips. "That I whisper sweet nothings to you as you sleep in my embrace? Would you prefer that…Harry?" Severus let the name pass his lips slowly, naturally, as if it were the only name he ever had, or ever would use for the boy, and Harry's eyebrows furrowed – his face contorting in some unique mixture of refusal and puzzlement.

Severus touched the bruise below Harry's eye, where his cheekbone had struck the desk a night, maybe two, before.

"I thought not. In fact, Mr. Potter," the switch back to his usual surname was cold, "I believe you prefer that I hold you down. Hurt you. Bruise you. Mark you as my own. I believe," he kept his voice soft, his touches tender, "that you need it this way so that somewhere in that tiny, puerile mind of yours, you can tell yourself that you had no choice." Harry closed his eyes, unable to even recall his justified concern and anger, and Severus grabbed him by the collar, dropping all pretenses. He let his voice grow harsh with ire – let it strike the Gryffindor to the bone if it could. "So you can tell yourself that you couldn't have put a stop to it – couldn't have run to our dear headmaster and had me sacked within the hour. You, in your _weakness_, need to believe that it was never consensual, that Severus Snape, a Deatheater, never asks, but only takes." Severus dropped his voice to its most dangerous timbre and finished with a killing blow: "that you never begged me to touch you." A sound tumbled from Harry's lips, something between a whimper and a sob, filling Severus satisfaction.

Eyes growing hot with undeniable truth of it all, Harry lost all sense of consequence. Everything was suddenly so insignificant under the force of the Potions Master. Nothing seemed as real as that moment.

"You think of that before you ask for my tenderness," Snape finally spat, and released his grip on Harry's collar. The Gryffindor stumbled back, shocked. "And learn to own what you've done."

"They'll know," he said again, voice little more than a whisper. "They'll know."

"Then hide it. Merlin knows you've more resources than a high-collar. Now get out. You've wasted my time yet again, Mr. Potter. And if you don't care to treat your training in Occlumency with professionalism, than neither do I."

"But –"

"I SAID OUT!"

Severus straightened his robes calmly as the door slammed shut. The wretch had it coming. If that hadn't been motivation enough to take discretion seriously, Potter was even more thickheaded than he'd thought.


	23. Killing Time

23

Killing Time

Shortly after being expelled from Snape's office, Harry began to see that perhaps the fates had dealt him a positive hand by letting Hermione in on a piece of his secret. She, with as limited involvement as possible, could teach him to vanish, heal, or at least _hide_ his marks. That was what Snape had meant by resources, wasn't it? He felt like a moron having to ask at all - but suddenly it seemed very important to fix the situation himself. And Hermione might even be a little placated if he asked for her help so soon after promising to do so. It was worth a shot, anyway.

The weekend of Christmas, Severus was called three days in a row. Each time, it was to torture a confession of disloyalty out of a different member of the Dark Lord's ranks. None of them (two men and one woman) had anything of import to admit. The first, Usov Jugson, had lasted through an hour and a half of almost non-stop Cruciatus, only to cry out bloodily that he had stolen the rings from a muggle woman in custody, when they should have been left to the Dark Lord. For this offense, he was given another bout of Cruciatus, though only a short one. Severus knew all this, down to the pitch of the man's screams, for not only was he among the ring of Deatheaters circling the spectacle, he had been wielding the wand at the Dark Lord's right hand. Never what one would call an "easy" job, but one Severus had gotten used to over the years.

Christmas Morning, it was Alecto Carrow suffering the attention of Voldemort's suspicions. She lasted a great deal less time than Jugson, most likely due to the nature of her particular interrogation. She had been set alight, and healed repeatedly, until the healing bit stopped working so well. The smell of her burning flesh had permeated his robes so fully that he'd had to replace them, much to his annoyance. But, the interrogation had been quite short- within 30 minutes she'd clutched the crisped remains of her hair and wailed her offenses: just as mundane as Jugson's.

However, instead of being placated by his subject's mundane crimes, The Dark Lord seemed angrier than before. He wanted to find a real heretic – that was clear. As Voldemort had sent the wailing, blistered woman away, Severus couldn't help but think of Potter doubling over in pain. The Gryffindor must have been opening his gifts about then, his scar splitting open without warning as, miles away, Voldemort raged. However, the boy had been showing some minor improvement in the field of mental defenses, so perhaps it had been little more than an uncomfortable tingle or mild headache.

In actual fact, Harry had dropped a bag of chocolate frogs, scattering them all across the floor, when his scar twinged. It wasn't the pain that sent his Christmas confections scrambling under his bed, though. It was the thought of its cause – of whether or not Professor Snape was there to see it. Or suffer its consequence. For Voldemort was angry that morning, there was no question in Harry's mind.

The final of the trio, put on the stand the evening after Christmas day, had been none other than Peter Pettigrew himself. An unsettling sight: the worthless rat of a man clutching his silver hand to his chest as the convulsions took him. Not because of its brutality, oh no, that was hardly disquieting. It was the familiarity of Pettigrew to The Dark Lord that bothered Severus. A pattern was forming – one that Severus did not wish to see. Voldemort was moving through his followers; bottom to top, and Severus could see his own interrogation looming. It seemed inevitable, even as he leveled his wand at the corpulent, whimpering mass that had doomed the Potters, and declared it again:

"Crucio."

Over and over, and Pettigrew writhed like an earthworm at his will. The rat had nothing to confess, though; the Dark Lord knew that just as Severus did; and so the unforgivable was lifted not long after Severus had begun.

His instinct upon returning to the castle that night, tired but entirely un-bloodied, was to report immediately to the Headmaster. It was perhaps half-past nine when he approached the gargoyle-guarded entrance, unusually early for such reports. He was stopped halfway through his sullen pronouncement of "peppermint humbug," however, by the muffled voices from within. If he wasn't much mistaken, it was the young Potter being entertained. Normally, he would have waited for the meeting to conclude, but in this instance he thought perhaps it would be best to interrupt. Lord knew what the boy could give away with a word or two.

"Peppermint humbug," he muttered, but the gargoyle just stared balefully at him. "Peppermint. Humbug." He repeated, enunciating purposefully with a glare. Damn the old man's security. Finally, after a moment of stony consideration, it jumped aside, revealing the well-worn staircase. Dumbledore sounded concerned, though Severus could pick up distinct notes of suspicion in the voice as he ascended the stair, catching the tale-end of a very Albus-like sentence.

"…ever need anything, you can come to me. Professor McGonagall has been very worried for you. She tells me your schoolwork has been slipping." Just as Harry opened his mouth to reply, Severus cleared his throat from the shadowed entrance. Potter jumped, head snapping up to look at him. Severus was mildly pleased as Harry schooled his expression into dislike and grudging attention. It looked passably genuine. Severus raised an eyebrow, half expecting the boy's face to collapse into submissive.

"Severus!" Dumbledore sounded exceptionally genial. "Harry and I were just discussing his schoolwork." Harry slumped into his chair.

"I shouldn't think any depth of academic lethargy would be terribly surprising, Albus," Severus replied, and gave Harry a cursory glance. The Gryffindor sank further.

"Now, Severus. You remember what being in school is like." Severus cleared his throat with a meaningful look in response. The best way to defeat the Headmaster's endless banter was simply to ignore it. "Yes, well, Harry. I believe Professor Snape and I have a meeting to begin. Remember, my boy, you have a support system here. Don't be afraid to use it."

Gratefully, Harry took his cue to leave, and stood.

"Thanks, Professor Dumbledore. I'll remember that."

"And Harry, go to bed, won't you? You look like you could use it." Harry blinked, and Severus could tell it was to cover up the impulse to look at him.

"Sure," Harry replied as he turned to go. "That sounds good, actually."

Severus didn't for a moment delude himself into thinking that Potter wouldn't be listening at the door. Sweeping his robes out behind himself, he sat in the Gryffindor's vacated chair, and began, not waiting for Albus to ask.

"I've been called three days consecutively, Albus. Each time to participate or lead an interrogation against one of the Dark Lord's own. First, it was Usov Jugson, followed Christmas morning by Alecto Carrow. This evening it was the infamous Peter Pettigrew."

"And what does it mean?" Dumbledore folded his hands calmly on the desk. Severus smoothed his hands over his legs.

"I believe… that he is getting closer."

"To you, you mean."

"Yes." There was a pause, and then the question Severus had been expecting – the question that proved Albus Dumbledore to be less of a kind-hearted old man than he would have himself thought.

"Do you feel you will hold up under interrogation?"

That was what mattered, of course: whether Severus could handle the torture.

"I do." A simple discussion on the surface, but in reality, one far more layered than it let on. Unspoken was Dumbledore's decision, for example, to resign Severus to his death should his mental barriers break. There was only so much a mind, even Snape's mind, could take, and they both knew it. Unspoken, too, was Severus' agreement to such terms: their collaboration was, at heart, a suicide pact, and always had been. Harry Potter was what mattered, at least until it was the boy's turn to die, and it was Severus' responsibility to take certain truths with him to the grave. Perhaps a few more than Dumbledore himself knew.

The headmaster's eyes were soft and sky blue, but their affected concern made Severus feel ill. It was all so duplicitous – even on the side of good.

There was a moment then, when the silence fell heavily, but it passed, as such things always did when there was work to be done.


	24. Pushing

24

24

Pushing

In the stairwell connecting the Headmaster's office to the rest of the school, Harry took his ear from the door. Talk inside had turned to his performance in Occlumency, and he didn't particularly care to hear what Snape had to say about that particular subject. What he _did_ want to hear more about was Snape's agreement to torture. His stomach turned over at the thought and an image flashed unbidden into his mind: The Potions Master, on his knees before a cloaked figure, refusing to cry out though his body shook with the force of a Cruciatus cast by the Dark Lord himself. His chest ached in sympathy – but why should it? It was Snape's lot in life. He was an evil, manipulative, possible Deatheater spy. Maybe he deserved it.

But somehow that didn't quite ring true for Harry anymore. He thought of how the Dark Mark looked on Snape's skin: stark and sinister, yes, but tragic too. The brand of a disturbing, painful past that could never be wiped clean. Before Harry could dwell too much, however, he heard the scrape of a chair pushing back, and retreated at once down the stairs, unwilling to be caught eavesdropping.

Severus took all of three steps past where Harry had ducked behind a suit of armor, before stopping, sighing.

"Want something, Potter?" he asked, without turning around. Sheepishly, Harry stepped from the alcove.

"Nothing in particular, Sir," he replied, shuffling his feet. Severus did turn, then, and raised an inquisitive eyebrow at the Gryffindor.

"No?"

Five minutes time found Harry half-naked and on the floor in Severus' bedroom. He'd tripped over the heath rug as Snape pushed him backwards, falling right on his arse.

"Clumsy," Severus murmured, and stood over him. "Still growing in to you paws, Potter?" Harry flushed scarlet.

"You pushed me!" he accused, standing, and Severus trailed his fingers thoughtfully down Harry's bare chest, eyes glittering.

"I seem to recall already having had this conversation." Harry swallowed, and dropped his eyes. Yes, he recalled that as well. He'd never been cut down so quickly in all his life. '_You need it this way so that somewhere in that tiny, puerile mind of yours, you can tell yourself that you had no choice._' He didn't want to hear it again: once had been more than enough.

"Sorry, Sir," he amended, and Severus cocked his head.

"Speaking of which," he continued, taking Harry's jaw in hand and turning it to the side, inspecting him. "You seem rather more… _pristine_," Severus ran his knuckles down Harry's throat, "than I left you." The fine hairs on Harry's arms and neck stood at attention.

"I… ah… healed them," he replied, and felt his skin go hot where Snape's hand passed.

"I can see that," Severus replied, and pushed Harry the rest of the way to the bed, then down onto his back. "Mmm…" he murmured in appreciation, casting his eyes down at the expanse of flawless skin below him. Then, almost to himself: "One hates to see a blank canvas." Harry let his head drop back to the mattress at that, eyes dropping closed. Sometimes things came out of Snape's mouth that were just too much to handle.

A simple twist, and the button on Harry's slacks popped free, and Severus hooked his fingers under the waistband. "Always so eager to close your eyes against me," the Potions Master mused, and wasted no time in pulling all remaining clothing down past Harry's ankles. He, along with them, slid to his knees beside the bed. Harry's legs spread willingly under his touch, and he settled between them, presented with an eager, adolescent erection. He, pressing a kiss to the inside of Harry's thigh, brushed a fingertip down its length, and the boy's eyes snapped open at last. But they didn't meet his, oh no: they couldn't.

Harry was staring at the ceiling, overwhelmed, trying not to think about, let alone look at what Snape was doing. Even when Severus rested his hands on Harry's hips, and let his breath feather across over-heated flesh, Harry didn't look. If the Potions Master was _that close_ to him, and he looked down – saw that wicked mouth curl up into a sneer before… before…. He was sure he'd lose it.

The Gryffindor jerked at Severus' slightest touch, trembled at the mere passage of breath, but Snape held him firmly in place, wanting to taunt, not gratify. And when Harry's hands clenched in the bedspread, he knew it was to tamp down the desire to grab his hair – force him into action.

"Potter," Severus murmured, and Harry recognized the command in it, but shook his head no. "Potter…" that ever-deepening voice held a hint of amusement the second time, and Harry felt himself go red. Snape was _mocking_ him. "Tsk, tsk, haven't learned to control ourselves yet, have we?" Severus asked, and Harry could feel the words against his skin as he shook his head again, fervently, no. How could he _possibly_ control himself in this situation? Though he desperately wanted to press his hips up toward that infuriating voice, they could hardly raise a millimeter under the iron grip. Frustrated, he threw his head to the side.

"_Professor!_"

And then Snape nuzzled against him, and Harry nearly jumped right out of his skin. Would have, had it not been for the Potion Master's implacable hands. And when Severus leaned in yet closer, inhaling his scent, Harry felt stripped of every defense and every bit of armor, instead of just his clothes.

Hot, deliberate breath again, a tiny sound from the Potions Master, and Harry did it – he looked. And, as he'd predicted, the sight nearly undid him, shooting such a powerful surge of arousal through him that it sent his toes curling against the floor.

Severus Snape was on his knees at Harry's feet. _On his knees_.

"Sir," Harry whimpered, and Snape's eyes snapped hotly up to meet his, half obscured by ink-black hair and Harry himself.

"Mmm?" Severus answered, and the vibrations from his voice went straight into Harry's cock, making him shudder and press against the elegant, vice-like hands holding him unwaveringly down.

"Please – Merlin – stop, stop teasing me." It came out less coherently than Harry would have liked, but at least he'd managed to form recognizable words. However, as Severus' expression slid smoothly into something so dark and decadent that it bordered on threatening, Harry had to close his eyes again, or risk coming all over them both.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" came the rough reply, and Harry'd swear to the slightest brush of lips against him. "Get right down to business, hmm, Potter? What a whore you've become." Harry opened his mouth to reply, but his intended denial degenerated into nothing as one of Snape's hands gripped him intimately.


	25. To See

25

25

To See

Severus considered what Potter was panting for. The boy didn't deserve such treatment – never had. Perhaps he would earn it eventually, but not tonight.

"Something to say?" he prompted, rubbing small circles on trembling hips with his thumbs. The Gryffindor shuddered, and threw an arm over his face: a gesture that Severus had just about had enough of. "Don't you dare." The Potions Master at once rose up on one knee and grabbed Harry's willowy wrist, jerking his arm back. "No hiding, Potter."

Harry's expression was, at that moment, nothing short of desperate, and Snape maintained his unforgiving grip on the boy's wrist as he stood, pulling them both to their feet. Harry went reluctantly, even as he yielded to Severus' kiss. It was not, as such things never were with the Potions Master, tender or comforting in the least. It seemed almost to mock him with its cool control – something Harry wished, as of late, he had a little more of. It was a kiss that didn't say, "_I care for you_," or even, "_I want you,_" but instead, "_I own you_." Harry felt his blood rush – heard it in his ears.

"So eager and yet so _afraid_," Severus' murmured against his obedient mouth. It was stated as fact – and Harry could have… _would_ have resented it, had it not been so undeniably true. He'd been the one lurking about in the hallway, practically stalking the man. One way or another, he always asked for it.

Snape's hand, vice-like around Harry's wrist, twisted him to face the bed. Then, hissed like a threat into Harry's ear: "On the bed, Mr. Potter. On your back."

As Harry did as he was told, Severus retrieved his wand, but paused before moving to join him on the bed. The boy really was quite elegant – in a degenerate sort of way – lying white against the dark quilt, cock demandingly upright and begging for attention. And not a mark on him. Severus' hands itched again at the renewed purity, just as one longs to stamp through the virgin snow – leave one's footprints behind.

"You, my little Gryffindor, look like a dessert," he growled with a somewhat unexpected surge of possessiveness. Harry looked up nervously from beneath his eyelashes, and Severus could tell clear as day that the boy longed to cover himself. At that, a wickedly brilliant idea came to him, and he tapped his wand thoughtfully against his palm. "Shame of you to miss such a sight."

"_Animadverto_." As the word passed Severus' lips, a silver mist burst forth from his wand and began to solidify before him. It roiled for a moment, amoeba-like, before spreading out thinly in mind-air. A mirror, Harry realized. It rotated leisurely beside the bed as it hardened, becoming perfectly flat and smooth. Then, with a flick of his wrist, Severus directed it above the bed, where it hung, facing straight down.

"What are you doing?" Harry yelped, and finally gave in to his shyness, moving to curl into himself.

"Look at yourself," Severus commanded at once, voice leaving no room for argument or disobedience. "See what you are at this moment." Harry went red from his cheeks to his navel, but didn't dare refuse. So, he looked up into his reflection, and saw with singular shock something only Snape had ever seen before:

He was glistening with sweat, tousle-headed, flushed with humiliation, his eyes a wide-open luminous greed. He looked… wanting. Decadent.

A soft, "Oh," was all he could manage.

"Indeed," Severus replied, and sat lightly on the edge of the bed. "Quite a transformation from your day to day, hmm?" Harry nodded dumbly. He hardly recognized himself. But he couldn't really be surprised – he was a different person here with Snape. They both knew that. It was Severus who never changed. The man'd never even fully undressed, for Merlin's sake, not once – never given up more than a sliver of skin at his throat and forearms. Ever the Potions Master; ever the Deatheater spy. But Harry Potter…

He was either Harry, great hope of the Wizarding world, protégé of Albus Dumbledore, minor miscreant of Hogwarts; or he was Potter, submissive plaything, reluctant concubine. He belonged to the world, or he belonged to Severus. He was never his own.

"Potter," Snape said again, pulling his attention away from the mirror. The Potions Master's long, slender fingers gripped his jaw. "You chose this," he said, meeting Harry's eyes. "There is always the choice."

It was a strange thing to say, Harry thought, and accompanied by a look he couldn't identify. But then he was kissed, and suddenly the import of those few words hit him, as if transferred through the meeting of lips – the brush of tongues. '_There is always a choice. In this, if nothing else._' Even when his whole life was planned out and kept secret from him – when he couldn't tell who to trust or which path to take – he could stop this if he so chose. Snape pulled back just enough then, dark eyes still focused on Harry's, and simply paused there, waiting. Harry's eyes flickered briefly back up towards the mirror.

"What if I don't want the choice?" They were not the words he'd intended to say, seemed almost to come from someone else, and even Snape was taken aback by them.

"Then may God help us both."

There was something almost poetic about the pale flesh of his legs cutting across the unbroken swathe of black that made up Snape's body: something almost… beautiful about how his hands looked braced on the antique brass headboard. And the deep ripple of their motion was erotic beyond reason – starting at Snape's hips and twining its way up through them both to peak in the arch of Harry's neck. It was unlike anything Harry had ever imagined, let alone seen before, and he clutched the headboard harder for it, felt the motion more sharply. He could feel Severus' dark eyes on his face, but didn't look away from the mirror above. He was entranced.

And when Severus' lips brushed his ear, and that liquid voice started to flow, it was to do what it always did: to play on the dynamic, to mercilessly twist Harry's understanding of the world and bring him to new heights. Or, more likely, new depths. And Harry drank it in like one of Snape's potions – never asking – never daring to question whether or not it was poison.

Before long, however, Severus abandoned his whispers in favor of fulfilling an earlier desire, still bent as he was on leaving as many marks as possible across Harry's skin. And the Gryffindor could hardly muster any sort of protest – could hardly muster anything, in fact, but increasingly whimper-like moans of "_Professor_," and a kind of desperation reserved specifically for the Potions Master's eyes.

Harry managed not to lose sight of himself in the mirror until the very instant of orgasm, and even then it was for hardly a moment. He was quick to recover it, too, in an effort to see what Snape's body did when _he_ lost control – when he made that sound that struck Harry to the very marrow. And oh, the sight of that guarded body going taut and those long, powerful hands turning to fists in the bedclothes… the image would never leave his mind.


	26. A New Desire

Chapter 26

Chapter 26

A New Desire

Severus rested his forehead against Harry's shoulder for a moment, his breath hot and heavy, but leveling, and Harry disengaged his hands from the headboard. They fell, stone-like, against the pillows. In fact, Harry's whole body felt unnaturally heavy, right down to his feet wrapped around Severus' hips. When Severus coaxed them free and moved to the side, laying beside him, their eyes met in the mirror.

Severus quirked an eyebrow at the incongruous image: they looked, for the moment, rather like a metaphor – perhaps the wolf and the lamb. But in this case, Severus thought, the lamb was entirely aware of his company.

"Quite a pair we make," he said, and Harry grinned weakly, but closed his eyes. "Too much for you, I see." Severus turned on his side, running the back of his knuckles along Harry's ribs. "Too much for most, I would think." He sat up.

The appropriate cleaning spells had become a habit by then, and Severus performed them with all the attention of an automaton. First his clothes, then his person, followed by Potter, and finally the sheets. Harry watched silently from the bed through half-lidded eyes, waiting patiently for the job to be done, before pulling the blanket up and over himself. Almost charmingly self-conscious, Severus thought, though equally close to aggravating. Potter was a creature of contradiction at his core.

The conjured mirror disintegrated back into mist when Snape cast the counter spell, dispersing into a fog, a brief shimmer, and finally into nothing at all. He could have simply summoned the mirror from his bathroom, of course, but as with most of the castle's mirrors, it was enchanted. And enchanted mirrors tended to socialize not only with each other, but with the portraits as well, making them what one could call massive security risks. More than that, even. Summoning an enchanted mirror for such a purpose would have been an act of deliberate confession; something Severus tended to avoid in all facets of his life.

He turned back towards the bed, meaning to send Potter on his way, but found with only mild surprise that he'd been preempted.

The Gryffindor was curled up in the middle of the mattress, hair a veritable rats-nest of tangles, face rosy and passive with post-coital glow. Severus looked at him laying there, with his lashes a dark smudge against his cheeks and his lips bitten to an unforgivable pout, and wanted to let him stay. Almost wanted to…. _ask_ him to stay. The notion was at once inescapable.

But no, he couldn't. Of course not. What foolishness.

The moment passed, and Severus cleared his throat purposefully. Not so much as a twitch from the boy. So Potter had actually fallen asleep. Shockingly efficient of him, yet easily corrected.

But then… a few minutes couldn't hurt. Surely it was no later than half-past ten: early yet. So Severus lay back down beside the quiescent form, his weight causing too slight a dip to disturb the boy much. However, it was apparently just enough to make him turn sleepily over, curl a hand into Severus' shirt, and bury his face in Severus' neck. The boy hummed softly, a brief, vaguely contented sound, and Severus would never admit to the Goosebumps that raised the hair on his neck at the warm touch of Potter's breath.

Somewhere near midnight, Harry awoke to a soft admonition in his ear.

"Must I remind you, Potter, that you cannot stay here?" The rumbling tones were almost gentle, and he didn't open his eyes.

"Is that a real question?" he murmured, still half asleep, burying his face deeper against Snape's neck. The Potions Master went very still. "Don't make me go," he continued, voice quietly muffled, still floundering in sleep. Snape's fingers found their way into his hair, and it was soothing, really, right up until the soft touch turned into a fist. He gasped, shocked awake, as his head was jerked back.

"Are you talking back to me?" Severus growled, maneuvering them easily so Harry lay beneath him, neck arched back by his grip. But Harry only squirmed against him in response, and he was forced to recognize his oversight: Perhaps the best way to get Potter back to his dormitory was _not_ to physically antagonize him in an indirectly sexual way. Perhaps such a thing would backfire. He released the tangled hair at once, but Harry left his head tilted back against the pillows.

"Only you would try to send me away like that," he panted, shifting between the soft bed below and the warm body above, and Severus sighed. Oh, to be a teenager again: with an inexhaustible libido and a one-track mind. The boy couldn't even be threatened properly anymore. He lifted himself off of the Gryffindor with care, and sat up against the headboard.

"Do accept my apologies. Now get out," he said, purposefully keeping his voice hard and flat.

Harry passed a hand over his face, and propped himself up on one elbow.

"But… I thought maybe… well, It _is_ holiday…" he trailed off, each word making him feel more foolish than the last as Severus' expression remained aloof.

"You thought maybe you'd be welcome for the night?" Severus shot back. "That your powers of subtlety are such that no one would suspect a thing?"

"I… no. I guess not."

"Lo, he can be taught." Harry flushed at the jibe, and slid over to the edge of the bed, mindful of his nakedness.

"Mind if I get dressed first?" he asked with a sigh, sounding very weary. Severus didn't dignify this impertinence with an answer, and instead simply_ accio'd _Harry's wand. It flew to his waiting hand from somewhere near the entryway, and Harry took it without comment.

His things were, as was often the case, astoundingly strewn about, and he summoned each bit separately to avoid being buried by them flying from all directions.

Severus, leaning back against the headboard with hands folded and feet crossed, watched the Gryffindor dress. It wasn't until Harry turned nervously to face him that the silence lifted.

"As always, button your collar," Severus murmured, tilting his head to the side. Harry's hand went automatically to his throat, but he didn't blush, and Severus quietly seethed at the loss. Something else, then, unless the boy was suddenly immune…

"Shall I – " Harry cleared his throat, "shall I just go, then?"

"Fitting though it might be, I won't have you sleeping on my floor."

_That _garnered the reaction Severus had been denied, and he leered inwardly in triumph. Harry ran a hand through his hair, flustered.

"Right. Sorry," he muttered, and threw his cloak over his shoulders. "I'll, ah, see you tomorrow."

"Perhaps," Severus replied, even as the door clicked shut under invisible hands.

By quarter past twelve, Harry was back in his own bed, resignedly prodding his body with the tip of his wand, healing anything conspicuous. By one, he was fast asleep, curled around his pillow. Stories below his tower dorm, however, Severus lay awake, quietly contemplating the silence.


	27. A New Year revised

27

27

A New Year

Albus also slept little that particular night. He was very old, of course, and therefore didn't sleep much at all; but as he sat in his quarters, absently stroking Fawks' downy head before a smoldering fire, it was not age that kept his mind buzzing. It was Harry Potter.

The boy had been more than merely evasive during their meeting, and it troubled him. Maybe it was just his nature to worry about the young, but then again, Harry was perhaps the most important part of their entire resistance against the Dark Lord; the cornerstone of their every effort. If he fell apart now… all could be lost. And there were definite symptoms of impending breakdown in the boy. From his poorly-shrouded lies to the very way he held himself, Harry was seeming very… fragile, if that was the correct word.

"I wonder," Albus man murmured, more to himself than his lone companion, who looked up and cooed softly. "What has happened to him?" But the phoenix had no answers, of course. It was Albus' responsibility to keep Harry safe for his purpose, and fulfill it he would.

It didn't seem as though the boy was in any pressing physical danger, of course, Harry had just been acting so strangely. He was usually quite engaged, excitable, or even angry during their meetings, but this past evening he'd been distracted and anxious. With Harry there in his office, what the faculty had noticed was painfully obvious. There was some sort of… spark missing from the boy. And when Severus had interrupted, Harry'd nearly jumped right out of his seat.

Indeed… Perhaps the Occlumency lessons were wearing on him. The mind, such a sensitive organ, often responded poorly to antagonism. Training of the mental defenses was never easy, Dumbledore knew, and Severus was not a man to make such things less painful. His making things unnecessarily difficult was infinitely more likely. Perhaps Albus would ask more thoroughly after Harry's progression and resilience. For a boy in his pivotal position, there were a myriad of things that could go wrong with such added obligation. And for a boy so young? The pressure would be enormous.

Satisfied that he had a viable thread to follow in the morning, Albus turned his aged mind to other things. Things, which though he might consider them unrelated, were anything but.

Severus.

Albus sighed, stroking the sleek plumage of his companion. If The Dark Lord managed to break through Severus' (admittedly formidable) mental defenses, the Order would lose their most valuable operative. A mighty blow to the cause it would be. And a mighty gain for the opposition. However, what was there to do but trust in Severus' abilities, and pray for luck? He'd already given the man a pensieve to hold his most incriminating thoughts. And what other help was Severus likely to accept? If he _asked_ the man, he would probably only request fewer classes. Albus chuckled quietly. Or perhaps the Defense Against the Dark Arts position. Severus was, Albus thought fondly, rather predictable.

Of course, that was something of a mischaracterization.

Severus knew what he was doing. He did. He was in total control and had been since the onset. Just like every other aspect of his life. Yes. Under his thumb. But… he was beginning to sense unforeseen risks developing.

As Severus lay in his rumpled bed, hands folded over his chest, he postulated the nature of his immediate future. And for once, there in the semi-darkness, he was beginning to see through the notion that he was holding all the cards.

When Harry woke up the next morning, it was long past dawn. It may have even been past what could be technically called "morning." But it was still a good while before classes started again, and he was making the most of the freedom. It had been getting rather difficult to find the time to sleep, and apparently he'd been acting rather zombie-like in class. Or so he'd guessed in the Headmaster's office the day before.

"_Harry, have you been sleeping_?" Dumbledore had asked him. Harry had simply shrugged sheepishly and replied,

"_Nightmares_." That was a half-truth, at least. He _did_ have nightmares. And they _did _keep him awake. That, along with being kept up at all hours of the night by Snape, was really cutting into his sleep-time. But he could hardly have said that, could he? In any case, the extra rest allotted by Holiday was suiting him very well.

Sitting up and stretching luxuriously in the empty dorm, he was glad he didn't share a room with Hermione. Surely she would have something to say about his late nights, even if it was only to offer her confidence. The less she knew about any of it, the better. Hermione was just too sharp sometimes, and knowing her, she'd soon start trying to piece together the bits she'd already found out.

Some time later, after a late breakfast, Harry joined up with Ron and some fellow Gryffindors for an impromptu Quidditch match out on the snow-swept grounds. The cold whipped viciously at his face as his friends whirled below him, and for once, Harry thought, life didn't seem so bad.

Lord Voldemort would have probably begged to differ.

He knew there was a mole in his ranks. He _knew_ it. The traitor was simply proving more difficult to find than he'd anticipated, and with every false alarm he grew more and more impatient: more easily roused to violence. He'd gone through nearly every member of his innermost circles and had still found no indiscretion more grievous than petty theft or disloyal thought.

Of course, this would relieve any sensible leader, but Voldemort was nothing short of enraged by it. He _needed to find the traitor. _ He needed to find him, and torture him, and kill him. And then perhaps desecrate the corpse somehow. But he couldn't do that while the culprit was proving so elusive.

And he was getting closer to his most trusted Deatheaters with every wizard falsely accused. The very thought made him shake with fury – that someone so close to him had been a traitor all along! Nagini curled lovingly around his feet, sensing his sheer apoplexy. But the serpent couldn't distract him from this; it had to be done, even if he had to interrogate every single member of his ranks - twice. If he had to listen to their horrid, pathetic simpering a thousand times, he would torture the truth out of them in gouts of blood.

In days past, he would have simply purged his inner circle – killed them all. There had been a time when replacing them was as easy as the Cruciatus. But now, their ranks were wearing thin. Support was not what it used to be, not with the brat figure-heading the resistance like some sort of torturous crest of virtue.

Oh, how he longed for the opportunity to tear that very face from its skeleton frame… how did someone so fragile keep eluding him? The damned spy! Nagini slithered a little under the chair as he growled and slammed his fist against the armrest.

"WORMTAIL!" he shrieked. Unnecessary, really, as Pettigrew was skulking within 15 feet of him at all times.

"Yes, my Lord?" Wormtail replied, almost instantly.

"Fetch Bellatrix at once."

He was getting desperate.

There was something very peaceful about the Hogwarts grounds after a fresh snow. Severus found he could lose himself in the pristine whiteness as easily and fully as he could in brewing a complex potion. It was the final week of Holiday, just a few days before the first of the New Year, and he was grateful for the respite from classes. Nothing stamped the soul into submission quite like modern youth.

A few half-hearted flakes dusted his cloak as he stood looking out over the lake. It was not quite frozen, and he could see the various creatures therein disturbing the slush on the surface. It rippled with the tired placidity of deep winter, seeming to mimic the mood of the landscape. It was times like these, when he felt truly calm, that he could consider his own mortality objectively. Or, as objectively as one could do such a thing.

He knew he was going to die. Everyone dies: it was a simple fact. Comforting, even, when one took into account the deathless abomination Voldemort had become. Less easily dealt with, of course, was the knowledge that he would probably never see his 40th year. It was increasingly likely that he wouldn't even make it past his current 36. His early death was becoming an absolute; there was no question. But… was it worth it?

Was this place, were _these people_, worth it?

Perhaps not the best avenue of thought to pursue. With a word, Severus cleaned the shallow snow from a bench nearby, and sat. A Red Kite landed on a barren branch nearby. Another couple of snowflakes began to fall. The giant squid glimmered in and out of sight.

Would his life even mean anything when it was all over?

"Professor?"

He'd been found. His sigh billowed out, cloud-like, in the crisp winter air.

"Yes, Potter?" He could hear the scuffling of feet, though he hadn't turned to look. A soft cough.

"Can I sit?"

Severus opened his mouth to denounce the question and send Potter away, but the words didn't come out. All he did was nod. Keeping his gaze out over the desolate lake, he shifted over a little on the bench as Harry sat beside him. Neither one spoke as the snow began to fall again in earnest, and Severus had to wonder in the blanketing silence whether Potter's thoughts mirrored his own.

The New Year's feast came and went with little eventfulness. Meaning, of course, that no one important had been found dead, tortured, or simply gone missing. Not including the Deatheaters, of course, of which another set had been brutally tormented under Severus' supervision just that week. These had been no more guilty than the previous dozen, though of decidedly higher rank, and their punishments seemed to be escalating at an almost exponential rate. Severus found himself increasingly uneasy, as the situation seemed to draw inexorably closer to him.

Dumbledore's holiday speech may have been a little more serious to reflect the times, though not by much. The roast was perfect, (thanks to the houselves, Hermione reminded the surrounding diners), and pudding was delightful. The student body shared a single table with the faculty, as was the custom when the castle's occupants were so few, and though Harry and Severus were seated at opposite ends of the table (self-imposed Gryffindor-Slytherin ends, of course), there was little to distract them from each other's presence.


	28. Jealous?

28

28

Jealous?

The table was alive with chatter – within respective houses, of course, though Severus rebuffed the half-hearted attempts at conversation directed to him at every turn. He wasn't feeling terribly festive. Albus, sitting to Severus' right, was particularly stalwart in his attempts at small talk. As if they hadn't been "chatting" plenty as of late. Dumbledore had indeed approached Severus with his concerns over Harry not long after Christmas, leaving Severus in a foul mood. For, though Albus hadn't revealed his reasons for inquiring, Severus guessed at it. And, sensing the true meaning behind the inquiry, he'd made sure to make a point of Harry's poor performance. It offered an easy out for Severus if the Headmaster thought he'd found the source of Harry's recent reticence. Why indicate otherwise? Though he would have preferred an excuse that didn't link him to the boy…

Dumbledore had nodded in his sad-yet-understanding way, and asked him to go a little easier on the boy. Severus' response had been appropriately scathing – something about the Dark Lord not "going easy" and the general uselessness of coddling.

Thankfully, though, the Gryffindor had actually begun to Occlude Snape's presence with some regularity – a great improvement and relief to them both. Of course, it wasn't quite that simple. What ground Potter _had_ gained, in Occlumency and elsewhere, was starting to mirror ground Severus himself was losing. Loath though he was to admit it, he was self aware enough to recognize such things.

He knew full well why Albus had insisted on his attendance at the New Years dinner and following revelry; to help 'get his mind off things,' even to 'bring him a little cheer.' Severus sneered into his goblet.

The misguided old fool… not even things Severus _enjoyed_ doing took his mind off of the inevitable. And this- this, forced _mingling_, was most certainly not something he enjoyed. And either way, would more distraction even prove beneficial in the end? Certainly not. The best, most logical choice here would be to fixate as much energy as possible on guarding his mind. On _not_ letting down his defenses – not even one iota_._ As if he could hope to manage _that_ with the young Potter popping up in his every thought. And now Albus was pushing him still further down the wrong path! It almost made him wonder after the headmaster's soundness of mind. Hell, who was he fooling, it made him think Albus was going bloody insane.

It was almost as if the Headmaster saw the whole war effort as a game (albeit a dangerous, important one), that he could stop playing when he wanted to, in order to spend a night of holiday cheer with his friends and colleagues. Severus had no such luxury. To Severus, it was no game, nor even a profession. It was his life. However, that is not to say the remainder of the Holiday was spent entirely at work for Severus – he'd admit to more than his fair share of play. After all, it was holiday, and there was little to keep adolescent minds occupied.

Harry'd been had on nearly every surface in Snape's office and private rooms by the time New Year's Eve arrived, including the floor, though he'd abraded his back pretty badly on the stones.

Severus, to his credit, had managed to sustain a few minor injuries himself, not the least of which were a set of crescent-shaped bruises on his neck. Though usually hidden by his hair, Harry managed to catch sight of them for a moment at the dinner table that night.

Severus had turned his head sharply towards the Slytherin at his left, hair swinging forward. The marks may not have been as obvious to the surrounding diners as they were to Harry, but to him they were clearly fingernail marks. From his fingernails. As if sensing his reaction to the sight, Severus turned back to give him a sideways glance.

"_You're a beacon for attention. Stop it at once._" The thought brushed through Harry's mind, and he looked down at his plate, embarrassed. And a little flattered despite himself that the Potions Master hadn't healed them.

After pudding, Severus found himself "socializing" still more at the school-wide New Years Eve party, again, entirely against his will. After the third time Albus had caught him trying to escape, he'd begun to think that perhaps his skills in espionage were not as impressive as he'd thought. So, he took the firewhiskey offered to him, and resigned himself to wait for the strike of midnight.

Across the absurdly decorated room, Severus could just see the Golden Boy and his entourage chatting amongst themselves. _They'd_ appreciate the harder alcohol more than he would, Severus thought, surreptitiously dumping his goblet into a potted plant. He hadn't the slightest clue why Albus kept handing him alcohol when the man knew full well he couldn't afford to let his faculties slip for even a single evening. With his luck, he'd be summoned for interrogation just as he crossed the line from pleasantly tipsy into piss-drunk. That would just be the icing on the cake, wouldn't it?

His luck, indeed. It was even surprising, really, how infrequently his obligations to either side had interfered with his dalliances with the young Potter. He wouldn't have been terribly surprised if the episode of Dumbledore's near-discovery had happened more than once. Speaking of which, he could tell at just the slightest brush against Potter's mind that the boy was harboring a few youthful notions as he sat among his peers. The strongest of these happened to be the traditional desire to be kissed at the midnight chime. "Happy New Year" et cetera. Severus leaned back against a table, sneering his scorn. Little chance of _that_.

As midnight approached, Severus had given up even pretending to listen to the conversation intermittently directed at him. Instead, he stared at the grandfather clock in the corner, willing the hands to move faster. Thankfully, the first chime of twelve took all vestiges of attention off of him, and Severus readied himself for a swift exit. However, he found himself momentarily distracted by an attractive, though unassuming young woman. Heading straight for Potter. At the final chime sounded, she grabbed him by the hand, kissing him. Choruses of,

"Happy New Year!" filled the room to a raucous degree, but to Severus they may have been the distant buzzing of bees. The girl, a Ravenclaw by the looks of her robes, blushed prettily as she pulled away. Severus felt his blood go hot. They exchanged some words, and Harry smiled. But, Severus noted with some vindication, that the Gryffindor looked very uncomfortable indeed. The green eyes flicked around for a moment, before settling uncertainly on Snape, as if Harry did not know himself how to react to the situation and was looking for an indicator. Judging by the speed at which Harry disengaged himself from her company, Severus guessed he'd looked murderous.

"Hey Harry! Wait," Cho called after him, but Harry was already well on his way to the closest boy's bathroom.

"Headmaster, if I may, I believe the mandatory festivities have concluded," Severus said, raising his voice to be heard over the chaos of celebration. "_Congratulations, nitwits. You've managed to live another year,_" he thought bitterly as Albus clapped a jovial hand on his shoulder.

"What was that, Severus? Have another drink, my boy!"

"No, Headmaster, I _said-"_

"Minerva! Come have a drink with Severus!" The old man grabbed the Gryffindor head by the sleeve as she passed, jerking her into the conversation. Severus put a hand over his face, thinking that if he'd actually drunk everything he'd been handed since dinner, he surely would have thrown it all up by now.

It must have been close to half-past by the time he finally managed to disentangle himself from the embarrassingly festive faculty. He made a bee line for his rooms on the off chance that he would somehow be harangued back into the party, as it had been showing no signs of ending when he'd left. Three floors or so away from the others, the castle became blessedly silent, and stayed that way until the moment he opened the door to his rooms.


	29. Tried, Tested, and True new version

29

Tried, Tested, and True

Within nanoseconds of Severus appearing in the doorway, he was assaulted with a blur of apologies. Potter had been waiting for him. Should have seen it coming.

"I'msorryshejustsnuckuponmeIdidn'tmeantoit'snotlikeIwouldever-" Severus held up a hand, stemming the word-vomit.

"For the love of Merlin, Potter, take a breath." As if he needed anything less than this at the moment. Damn teenagers. Damn them all to hell.

"…Sorry," Harry finished lamely, red in the face. Breathing just hadn't seemed that great of a priority next to communicating how much he hadn't wanted to kiss Cho. What a fantastic time for her to reciprocate. Snape smoothed his robes and crossed his arms over his chest. And just stood there.

Confused, Harry shifted his weight. He'd been expecting… something. Something violent. Or angry. At the very least assertive. He ran a hand through his hair.

"You're not…?" he began, but trailed off, not sure what he was asking or whether he should ask it.

"What, jealous?" Severus took a step or two into the room, "Mr. Potter, jealousy would imply a perceived threat on my part." His fingers set to unfastening the buttons on his outer robes. "Do you mean to say that I should feel threatened by that… girl?" He shrugged out of the heavy black cloth and dropped it over a chair, revealing the tunic, vest, and slacks beneath.

"Oh," Harry murmured, feeling a rush of arousal at that simple action. "No." After all, he'd never seen Snape wearing much _less_ than the signature black ensemble; making the removal of his Professorial robes almost a striptease. Harry swallowed hard at the thought. Severus advanced.

"And why is that?" the Potions Master drawled, pushing Harry further into the room with a hand to his chest.

"What?" Harry sat obediently when the back of his legs hit the edge of Severus' personal desk, and subdued the immediate desire to wrap his legs around the man. He bit his lip instead, and curled his fingers around the edge of the desk.

"_Why_ is it absurd to think I would be jealous?" Severus pointed his wand at Harry's chest, and the buttons there disengaged themselves at his command. He undid the Gryffindor tie by hand, though, taking his time. And Harry felt the familiar brush of Severus' influence against his mind, coaxing up memories and images of their interactions, both those wantonly explicit, and subdued. He called up Harry's fear… his desire… and his actions. Harry didn't answer the question, didn't really remember the question, and grabbed Snape's sleeve instead, anchoring himself.

Severus, in turn, seized his wrist and pulled it aside.

"Potter," he insisted, voice growing suddenly hard. "_To whom do you belong?_" That was an easier question. Harry looked at the hand around his wrist, then up at the Potions Master himself. There was something in his expression… something not quite neutral. Not quite… secure. Harry's toes curled against his trainers.

"You," he said. "All for you."

"Indeed."

When Severus kissed him, the soft, chaste, awkward New Year's 'peck' of Cho Chang's seemed not only shocking, but positively laughable. Like comparing stones to oranges - dust to wine. Harry pushed into the contact, bit Snape's tongue, wanting nothing more at that moment than to consummate the New Year. So, he ignored his cautionary voice (as he usually did, honestly) and reached between them to Severus' belt buckle. The Potions Master even allowed this forwardness, murmuring:

"Eager, aren't we?" and bit Harry's neck.

It took him a moment to puzzle out the buckle, but just as he managed it, Severus hissed in pain, and jerked back. Briefly, Harry thought he'd done something himself, but as Severus clutched his arm in just the right place, Harry's blood went cold with fear.

"What is it?" the Gryffindor asked, as if it wasn't clear enough. Severus pulled away, and began redressing what little he'd removed.

"Spoke too soon, didn't I?" was his only reply, directed more to the room in general than to Harry.

"He's summoning you, isn't he?" The Gryffindor asked again, insistent, as Severus cast around the room for something. It was the pensieve he was looking for, and, once found, he hastily removed a few strands of glimmering thought, letting them drop down into the basin where they swirled innocently. It was more than a precaution this time, Severus knew. He'd been keeping track of the interrogations and was fully aware of the fact that there were only two left to be had. Lucius Malfoy's, and his own. And as such, this was surely the night.

"Are you really so dimwitted?" Severus threw back at him. "_Accio_ mask!"

Harry jumped up as the infamous object flew to Snape's outstretched hand. After what he'd overheard… he had to do something.

"Professor – you can't go - " But even as he said the words, he knew how little they would do. Severus Snape _could_ and _would_ do whatever he pleased.

"And what would you have me do?" Severus replied, "Politely decline? Use sense." But Harry wasn't feeling too connected to his sense just then, as Severus tore a cloak from the peg beside the door, and turned to leave.

"Professor!" Harry darted forward and grabbed the Potions Master's wrist, wanting – inexplicably _needing_ to do something, anything to make him stay. But the slender hand was wrenched violently from his grip at once, and Harry stumbled back at the force of it.

"Never grab me, Potter!"

Severus threw the cloak across his shoulders as Harry started a senseless reply:

"But, you grab me all the time - " and was promptly cut off by fear as Snape seized his upper arm in a painful grip.

"That's right," Snape hissed, squeezing viciously. "_I _grab _you_." He threw Harry from him, and Harry tripped and fell. "Do not presume to stand as my equal, _boy_. Or in my way." Severus tucked the mask into his robes, sheathing his wand, as Harry watched helplessly from the floor.

"I heard what you told Dumbledore."

Severus cast a brief, unforgiving glance down at him, before turning briskly towards the door.

"And you thought I didn't know? Please." Torturously aware of the seconds ticking past, he nevertheless paused at Harry's next words, plaintive and childlike though they were.

"What if He hurts you?"

"Potter," Severus replied, hand on the doorknob, voice losing its edge for a scant moment. "I would be quite shocked if He did not." The door closed soundly over Harry's response, and Severus was content to pretend he didn't hear it.

"Come back."

The next 4 hours were the longest of Harry's life. They passed like years pass – so slowly he thought the clock in Severus' room must have stopped.

The first half hour or so was spent in an agonizing limbo of nothing – not a twinge nor tingle in his scar. He paced the bedroom for a good part of that time, every once in a while sitting in the high-backed chair or on the bed. But he couldn't sit still for long – not with the knowledge of what could be happening as he sat. He imagined Snape hurrying off, out of the grounds, then touching his mark and _POP! _Whisked away, into who _knew_ what sort of despicable dungeon. Of course, he could have just been called to oversee someone else's torture… but their parting words all but assured him that was not the case.

The not-knowing was torture in itself, but at what must have been nearly three in the morning, the pain finally hit him. It came in a clean burst of seizurous agony that knocked him at once to the floor, vaporizing all of his new-won occlumency like so much rain in a furnace. Voldemort wasn't angry, oh no. He was furious. Livid. Raving. Harry, acting entirely without benefit of rational thought, curled into a protective ball on the floor. His mind, eclipsed by second-hand torture, could think of nothing but for it to end. He may have lost consciousness for a while – there was no telling.

Severus didn't know what he'd expected upon arrival at the meeting, but to see Lucius Malfoy being dragged off by a pair of anonymous henchmen was certainly not it. His usually immaculate blonde hair looked matted with dirt and blood, and his head hung limply between his shoulders. Unconscious.

Severus had to hand it to the Dark Lord – he was indeed unsettled, as was the clear intention of such an opening scene. And Severus was not a man easily disturbed. Voldemort's wraith-like entrance, however, bordering rather heavily on the theatrical, somewhat killed the sinister mood.

"So good of you to join us," The Dark Lord said, sounding every bit the snake he was. The "s" syllables were as grotesquely elongated as his deformed, pallid body, and nearly as revolting. Severus bowed his head in reverence.

"My Lord," he said, and sounded – Merlin help him, he must have no soul at all –more sincere than a Monk in the presence of God himself. He kissed the wringed talon offered him with absolute piety – didn't even twitch when two of the willowy, skeletal fingers briefly stroked his jaw before tipping his head up from its bow. Not so much as a twinge in his subordinate expression, despite the revulsion that dripped slow and hot down the back of his throat.

The expression on the Dark Lord's face (if one could call it a face) was passive, but eager as well, and Severus had just enough time to think, '_it begins_,' before he was faced with the deadliest wand in the Wizarding World, leveled right at his heart. Again, not a twitch. He did, however, entertain a brief and irrational flash of pride in his life's work at the realization that Voldemort would have no mere assistant handle _this _interrogation. He would doll it out himself. Ahh yes, Severus' life's work had all lead him here, from the moment he'd taken the mark that still crawled uneasily under his skin.

"Severus Snape, you have been called before your master to confess your every transgression. Do you understand this opportunity?"

"I do, my Lord." He knew this speech by heart. '_Have you ever willfully or un-willfully disobeyed the Dark Lord's wishes?'_

_"_Have you ever willfully or un-willfully disobeyed my wishes?"

"No, my Lord." '_Have you anything to confess?'_

"Have you anything to confess?"

"No, my Lord." Yes, Severus had born both witness and executioner to this very event more than enough times to know that these opening questions were a mere formality. And he knew what would happen next, as well.


	30. A Matter of Will

30

A Matter of Will

Severus would like to say that he withstood at least the first phase of the interrogation on his feet. But Pettigrew, that _grotesque, _simpering _maggot_, had been positively chomping at the bit to participate from the very start, and, with a nod of assent from Voldemort, he had scampered forward, staff in hand. Severus fell obediently when the heavy wooden rod struck his kneecap; clenching his teeth so tightly that he thought they too might shatter, even as his bones gave way with a sick, wet snap.

Unfortunately for Severus' hopes, this moment of humiliation took place not fifteen minutes into what would become, he later deduced with wavering consciousness, a two-hour ordeal.

Voldemort stalwartly refused to believe a word that Severus spoke, though no amount of damage to his body or mind would yield anything but utter devotion. In fact, the more "innocent" Severus showed himself to be, the longer he was held under the cruciatus, and the more of his bones were shattered, twisted, and then healed once more, leaving him gasping and shaking.

He'd hardly care to admit it, but by the end, Severus had screamed his throat raw – spit blood onto the dirty stones beneath his hands with vehement answers of,

"No, my Lord."

Pettigrew, practically hopping about, seemed increasingly excited about that fact– probably enjoying his petty revenge while he could. It was not often, after all, that Severus could not slap Pettigrew down with the merest word of reprimand.

****

When it was all over, when he'd somehow, miraculously proven himself loyal yet again, Voldemort stood before him. The embroidered hem of his robes spread liquidly out over the blood-spattered ground, as if meant to be kissed. Severus' vision swam for one nauseating moment, before The Dark Lord spoke.

The reptilian voice was suddenly calm; almost reasonable – the monster of the Dark Lord's rage placated by its pound of flesh:

"On your feet, Severus."

There, practically prostrate before Lord Voldemort, Severus thought that such a request (order) would be impossible to heed. But somehow, despite the shattered knee they'd neglected to mend (and – _Oh, Merlin_ – what felt like a pair of broken ribs), he heaved himself upright. The grit from the floor stuck insistently to his sweaty, bloody hands, as he braced them on his knees and stood, nearly vomiting as the world spun sickeningly around him. Cruel way to go, after all that, Kedavra'd for soiling His Majesty's robes.

Voldemort looked rather impressed as Severus steadied himself (if the demonic face was capable of complex emotion at all, that is). "Have you anything to say to me?"

Severus recognized the parting test at once – he was being lured, if bluntly, into a confession of anger against The Dark Lord. After such suffering, most men would be delirious enough to take the bait. Severus, however, was still alive for a reason.

Though his throat felt clogged, he resisted the urge to clear it, knowing it would do nothing but make a bloody pulp of his voice. So he simply went ahead – hoping words would materialize from his will alone. And they did, though his usual smooth diction was long gone.

"Yes… my Lord." He took a steadying breath. "I will… readily… submit myself to… your scrutiny… as many ti- " blood bubbled from the corner of his mouth, but he forced his words through without mercy, "as many times as you… wish it. I am yet… your humble servant." Dipping his head again, he ignored the screaming protest in his neck and the treacherous spots that danced in his vision… though they looked rather pleasantly like snowflakes.

Right, he was getting delirious.

Voldemort laid his hand on top of Severus' head.

"Mmmm…" God, but He did sound pleased. Severus' increasingly tenuous hold on consciousness wavered. "And well you should be."

The Potions Master lowered his eyes in supplication, and kissed the ring offered to him, even as his hatred frothed like a raging, boiling sea within the most guarded recesses of his mind. Protected as the internal organs are from the naked eye, no one (not even Severus himself, without the proper precautions) could reach such dangerous thoughts.

"You may go, Severus."

"Yes, my Lord."

He refused the "aid" when similar thugs to those he'd seen dragging Lucius off approached him, and simply nodded his polite regards to the onlookers, before gathering his wits and apparating back the way he'd come.

Surprised enough that he hadn't splinched himself into sixths, Severus couldn't be bothered to care that he'd landed squarely on his back in damp grass. Once sure he'd apparated suitably close to the Hogwarts grounds, Severus found his earlier urge much more difficult to overcome. He vomited wretchedly into the grass, bile burning into his already raw throat like red-hot razors. As if he'd not yet suffered enough indignity – he couldn't even vomit in the privacy of his own bathroom.

Having emptied himself of the little he'd eaten at the New Years Feast, Severus attempted a deep, steadying breath. But as his lungs pushed against his ribs – yes, definitely broken – it only managed to pull his face into a grimace of pain.

His knee. That's what needed to be dealt with if he were to walk up to the castle. Staring down at it, he wondered how it dared to look normal hidden beneath his trouser leg when it felt more like a sack of broken glass than a joint. Wand in hand, he stared fiercely at it, but felt a debilitating lightheadedness wash over him before he could properly concentrate.

'_Severus,_' he said to himself, '_Severus you will not faint. Now heal. Your. Knee,_' Easier said than done – his hand was shaking almost beyond aim. Such uncontrollable quaking was a lingering effect of the cruciatus, no doubt, and likely to get worse before it got better. '_Severus, so help me, you made it through tonight you can make it out of a blasted sheep pasture!_'

Though the healing spell he cast was not half potent enough, he managed not to vanish his bones or injure himself further, and found himself able to shakily stand. Dazed, he looked around. Over his shoulder he spotted a glimmer of reflected light: moonlight glinting off of the castle's windows… a titanic distance from where he stood in the ankle-deep grass. He may as well have been headed to the moon itself, for all his legs would carry him.

'_You bleeding, melodramatic twat! WALK.'_ Hobble was closer to what he managed – the going was slow – but he couldn't prove the boy right by not making it back, could he?

When Harry came to, it was to a throbbing, if tolerable, headache. His glasses were snapped in two, but once repaired and replaced, he saw that Snape's rooms were still as empty as ever. Panic squirmed to life in his belly as he wondered how long it had been. Just as he started to pace again, however, he heard a small sound that made his heart sink like a stone. The slow creak of the door was far too hesitant to be the Potions Master returning, but…

"Professor Snape?" Harry dashed out into the hall, just in time to skid to a complete halt, and watch, horrified, as Severus closed the door with a Herculean effort, and sank to his knees against it. "Professor!" Severus made a snarling noise in protest as Harry crouched beside him and took his arm, but stopped just short of pulling free. And Harry, with the terrible thought that Snape was too weak to do more than object, nevertheless helped the Potions Master across the room and into a chair.

Severus was very, very white except (as Harry noted with a nauseating surge of fear) his eyes, which were badly hemorrhaged and filled with blood.

"Sir, are you, what ha- " Harry had hardly started when Severus cut him off with his first words, a gravely, "Silence!" that ended abruptly with a series of violent, retching coughs. The blood that bubbled forth, he wiped away onto his already filthy sleeve.

"God, what happened, did he- " Harry couldn't help it - the questions just started pouring out of him - but when Snape held up a hand to quiet him, and Harry saw how it shook, he closed his mouth at once.

"Excuse my interruption, Potter," Severus' voice was rough, wet, "but I'd appreciate your leaving at the moment. I rather need to inspect the damage."

"Damage?" Harry repeated dumbly as Severus stood; his slow, careful movements making Harry think either of great age, or great pain. Making him think, too, that Snape should not be walking around. "Please," he said, and laid a hand on Snape's arm, feeling the dirt and sweat and blood in the cloth, "let me. Please."

Severus' gaze was totally inscrutable, and frighteningly dulled, and Harry almost retracted the offer with apology as the look went on and on. But he stood his ground. Snape was stubborn, Harry knew, but not stubborn enough to refuse help when it was so clearly needed. At last, Severus nodded, and lowered himself back into the chair.

"If you insist on playing nursemaid…" he murmured, and closed his eyes.


	31. And He Slept

31

And He Slept

Harry knelt beside the chair, hesitantly reaching for Snape's buttons. He hadn't the slightest clue what "inspecting the damage" might entail, but Snape didn't stop him, so he continued. He couldn't help but think, as he moved through the layers, that this was not quite how he'd imagined first undressing Snape… not at all. Finally, he reached the last layer of clothing, and began opening up a slit of skin. Harry's heart began to beat a little faster as he parted the cloth – and saw, to his horror, that Severus' skin, which he'd always expected to be pale and white, was instead horribly mottled with great black bruises. His stomach turned at the sight of it, even as he found himself fascinated by the idea that Severus Snape could be hurt at all.

"They… they beat you?" Harry asked, touching one of the marks with his fingertips. But it couldn't be - surely Deatheaters frowned upon muggle interrogation methods.

"Cruciatus," Severus amended, leaning forward to allow the cloth to be coaxed from his shoulders. He cracked an eye. "Mostly." Of course, Severus knew well that Deatheaters rather favored muggle torture techniques, having the added benefit of being humiliating as well as painful. But the blood congealing under his skin, and probably his eyes as well, had been caused by magic.

Harry didn't understand. The cruciatus wasn't a physical blow. How could it possibly leave marks like that? He asked, and Severus even answered him:

"Extended application of the cruciatus curse often leads to trauma of the basal layer. Burst capillaries."

Harry found that answer more disquieting than the bruises themselves, half for the implications of it, and half for the way Snape had said it: like he was reciting from a textbook. And what exactly did he mean by 'extended?'

Harry took one of Snape's trembling hands in his.

"…And your hands?"

"Nerve damage."

"How long were you –" But Severus derailed the question with a look.

"If you would, Potter, fetch me a bottle of this," he conjured a bit of parchment, "at once."

Harry found that his hands were shaking too as he rifled through the Potions stores. Had it been hours? _Hours_ under the cruciatus? Was that even possible? How much could a person, even Severus Snape, physically stand? Just how much had it taken to snap the Longbottom's minds? And what did '_cruciatus, mostly,'_ mean? What else?

At last, and even without any dropping or otherwise damaging of bottles, Harry located the potion Snape had indicated, and pulled it free. It was a thick, cream colored liquid, perhaps ten or twelve ounces to the bottle. Innocuous looking, but Harry had paid enough attention in Potions class to know that appearances were nothing to go by.

Severus shook the bottle experimentally, as if checking the consistency, before uncorking it. A vague, woodsy smell wafted up, and Harry realized at once that he had smelled it before. It was, without a doubt, part of the smell he had come to associate with the Potions Master himself. The man was often marked by it.

"Professor, how often do you…"

Severus held up a hand, draining the potion in one long pull, and grimacing as he swallowed the thick, syrupy fluid. He coughed again, turning almost greenish, and looking as if he would very much like to curl up on himself. With a forced, calming exhale, Severus straightened, eyes squeezed shut, hands white-knuckled on the armrests.

"How often do you have to take that?" Harry finished. Severus did not answer at once, and when he did it was through gritted teeth – a testament to the course of the potion.

"Less than I brew it." He pressed his lips together into a white line, the tendons in his neck and forearms standing out. But then, amazingly, Harry saw the bruises start to fade… not turning yellow, as bruises do when they naturally heal, but red, as they must have been when they first occurred. Harry touched Snape's ribs where the bruises were now a burn, now hardly a flush, and found the skin there hot, almost feverish, to the touch.

Finally, as the red gave way to pallor, Snape's face, and grip, began to relax. When he opened his eyes the blood was gone from them, too.

Harry raised his eyebrows.

"And you couldn't have given me any of that?" he asked, absently rubbing his neck. Severus looked at him with mercifully clean eyes, carefully clearing his throat.

"This particular concoction," he touched the empty bottle, "though unpleasant, is unquestionably the best for the reconstruction of nerve-damage and general repair after prolonged exposure to the cruciatus and related hexes. Only a moron would use it as a hickey cure." Harry blushed.

"Oh."

Severus looked down at his hands, which, though dirty and caked with blood, had stopped shaking as well.

"Do you, should we…?" Harry began, wondering what else there might be to heal.

"_You,_" Severus cut in, "Should go back to your dormitory at once and leave me in peace." With that pronouncement, he stood, but swayed alarmingly. Harry jumped up at once, catching his arm.

"Sir?" Severus clutched the back of the chair.

"The potion has some secondary effects that many find undesirable," he said, and Harry, thinking of how a person's skin turned yellow just before a faint, did not let go. Holding his arm, Harry noticed that, where Snape's skin had been hot before, it was now very, very cold.

"Maybe you should sit down," Harry said, but Snape shrugged him off.

"I know how to handle my own business, Albus," he hissed, but sat back down anyway. "Do not presume to tell me what to do with my free time."

Harry blinked.

"Right," he said. "What sort of side effects?"

"Ahhh…" Severus mused, tracing a circle in the air, "the usual vertigo, disorientation. Some less enjoyable hallucinations."

"Hallucinations." Harry said as Snape trailed off again. The Potions Master raised his eyes, then touched one finger to Harry's forehead.

"Harry Potter…" he said. Then, dropping his hand, "you have a centipede on your face."

"A centipede," Harry repeated. "… On my face." Severus nodded, but paused, then shook his head.

"Ah, it's gone now. Crawled away," he made a weak, skittering motion with his fingers, and Harry fought the terrible urge to laugh.

"How long do they last?"

"Oh, an hour or two," Snape replied, and let his head fall back against the chair.

"Maybe you should lie down on the couch."

Severus' head rolled to look at it.

"That couch is revolting," he said. Harry followed his gaze, but the worn leather seemed quite normal. The point was proved moot, however, as Severus had already slipped into sleep, looking very frail and human slumped against the chair.


	32. Marked Man

32

Marked Man

Still in the haze of sleep, Harry could not at once remember where he was upon waking early the next morning. So, when he made to stretch and felt that he was not alone in the bed, it rather surprised him. And when he opened his eyes, what he saw did little to ease that initial shock: The dark mark, stark and staring, filling his vision, standing out even in the dim light of what must have been predawn. Heart racing, he nearly leapt from the bed but – Oh. Of course. He was in the dungeons, and the light was the magically-reproduced glow of the morning breaking high above them. All these thoughts ran through his mind in the few seconds it took for his wits to return, and, once fully awake, he recognized the canvas beneath the mark for what it was: pale, translucent skin. Snape's skin.

Severus' breath rippled the hair at the back of his neck at regular, slow intervals, and it was Severus' marked arm that was wrapped around him, resting the vulnerable, naked wrist right in Harry's field of vision. The Morsmordre seemed to almost pulse with malevolence as he looked, and Harry instinctively reached out to cover it – wishing to somehow make it disappear. Yet he stopped just short of touching the face, realizing that, as he had never touched one before, he didn't really know what would happen if he did. The mark was so loaded with significance in the wizarding community; it would not be unthinkable for the Morsmordre to somehow react to him. It was not something that wizards talked about.

He hesitated a moment longer before carefully, gently, touching one finger to it. Then two. Three. Severus exhaled against his neck. The mark felt just like the rest of the Potions Master's skin – cool and smooth, if not terribly soft. There was no sudden flare of pain, no jolt of electricity, no crack of magic. Nothing. Delicately, Harry scratched his fingernails over the mark. There was a sharp hitch of breath from behind him, and Severus' hand twitched.

"Don't," came a sleep-roughened, murmured word. The warm body shifted behind him. "Don't do that." Severus' leg hooked between his, as if to hold him still, but the man's breath was steady again – still sleeping. And so Harry didn't listen – letting his curiosity get the better of him. He scratched the Morsmordre again, a little harder.

"_G-god_." The breath shuddered out of the body behind him in a broken moan – an unexpectedly vulnerable sound – and Severus floundered in sleep only a moment longer before pulling free of Harry's grasp. At once Harry found himself pinned on his back. "I said, _don't_," Severus repeated, voice back to a more familiar timbre. "_Never_." Then, as if it were only just occurring to him, Severus' eyes narrowed. "What are you doing here?" he asked.

Harry swallowed, flexed his arms a little where they were trapped.

"You – ah – you fainted," he said.

"I _what_?"

"Last night after you… um, came back…"

Severs groaned and rolled to lie on his back, pushing his palms against his eyes in a gesture of utmost fatigue.

"Merlin's beard, boy," he growled, "_what_ possessed you to stay the night?" Harry turned on his side and propped himself up on one elbow to look at the Potions Master. Severus' shoulders and clavicle looked like porcelain against the bedspread– like they might break. His arms and hands, pale and exposed above the sheets, were sinewy.

"I couldn't just leave you here," Harry said, and Severus glanced at him from behind his hands.

"It didn't cross your mind that I've dealt with this before?" he asked.

"You were hurt. I didn't want to leave you alone."

"How very noble of you," Severus lowered his hands from his face, but his eyes were closed. "Well make yourself useful then. Get me a glass of water."

The stone floor was freezing against his bare feet, and Harry scurried more than walked out into the parlor for a tumbler.

When he returned, he saw Severus propped up against the headboard, blankets pooled around his waist and over his legs. Harry couldn't help but falter in his steps at the sight of the scars. What he hadn't noticed the night before was now, in the growing light of morning, painfully obvious – the man's chest and stomach were peppered with small, large, pink and white marks – puckered and smooth, some clearly magical, others more mysterious. There was an old, silvery gash over his navel, a series of rose-colored starbursts strewn over his shoulder, a terrible mark dashed across his ribs like a signature. Severus looked up at Harry's face, then down at himself.

"_Accio_ nightshirt," he said quietly, pointing his wand at the bureau. He caught the garment by the sleeve as it flew to him. "Not what you expected, Mr. Potter?" he asked.

"I don't know what I expected," Harry replied, setting the water down on the bedside table. He took hold of the shirt before Snape could shrug into it. "But you don't have to hide it from me."

Severus sneered.

"Wouldn't want to damage your delicate constitution." Harry just rolled his eyes and set the shirt aside.

"Yes, you are indeed the guardian of my innocence," he said, ignoring it when Severus glared. He climbed back on the bed and tucked his legs underneath himself.

***

Severus drained the glass, sighing as the conjured water soothed his raw, parched throat, before resting his hands in his lap. He looked stolidly at the Gryffindor perched beside him.

"What are you staring at, Potter?" he asked. Harry's eyes flicked up for a moment, then back down. Potter touched his wrist – traced the sprawling web of scar tissue spread over the back of it, twisting up towards his elbow. He didn't say anything at once, just touched the old wound with the lightest possible pressure. The silence lengthened.

"There is a reason I only take Outstanding students in my NEWT course," Severus said, but didn't take his hand away. "Potions is a dangerous field in which to specialize." Harry nodded, but still said nothing, not wanting to break the strange calm that seemed to have fallen over the prickly Potions Master. He touched one of the starbursts then, as if to ask, '_and this?_'

"I am apparently drawn to dangerous fields."

Harry nodded again.

***

Severus did not elaborate. Telling Harry Potter of how he'd suffered - what he'd had to do to convince the dark Lord (and Dumbledore, for that matter) of his loyalty –would serve no purpose. The way the lash bit into the flesh of his back – the acute agony of his sacrifices – it was all in the past. Or, at least, that which was in the past, was in the past. He could not say what he had yet to face.

Potter's fingers carded gently through his lank and matted hair. He hadn't had the time or the energy to wash it, injured as he was, and it was surely still soiled with blood and sweat and grime.

"_Scourgify,_" Harry whispered, before pushing a lock of the dark hair behind Severus' ear, and suddenly, Severus felt very, very, tired. Tired to the marrow of his bones.

"Go back to your dormitory, Potter," he sighed, shaking his head. "Celebrate the new year."

"Why?" Harry asked in return, "What have I got back there?"

"What have you here? Leave me in peace before the castle wakes to find its mascot missing."

***

Harry didn't answer. Didn't move from where he sat. He couldn't help but find it incredible that this was the same man who, not twelve hours before, had wrung from him a declaration of ownership: "_You. All for you_," Harry'd said, with hardly a second thought. And now, he could see that Severus Snape could be – and was – hurt. Scarred. Used.

'Let me stay,' he tried to say, but all that came out was an inarticulate sound of protest. Severus pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing, but pulled Harry forward into a kiss before the Gryffindor could turn away from the refusal. Not a refusal after all, then. Harry caught himself against Severus' chest, but the Potions Master seemed to recoil in pain at the impact of his hands. His ribs – Harry had forgotten. Severus pushed him away with a slow, deliberate inhalation.

"All is not put back together, Potter," Severus said. "Leave me to tend to it."

***

Harry's eyes were searching, clear green windows of childish concern that grated on Severus with their honesty. What a fool, to leave his eyes so transparent – anyone could see what lay behind them. Anyone could see who he was, what he felt, what he wanted.

"Can't I…" Harry moved his hands to brace against the headboard, breath warm across Severus' lips – a little fast.

"Can't you what?" Severus repeated back. Space for one more breath – and Harry's lips were back over his, apologetic and needy both at once, just as his eyes had been. And Severus just didn't have the energy to insist otherwise. Didn't have the energy to do anything about it as Harry lifted himself up and onto Severus' lap, straddling him over the blankets.

"Potter – " he said, but Harry cut him off.

"Don't – don't send me away. Not when you've just – when you're – "

"If you are to speak, please do so in complete sentences."

Harry sighed, rested his forehead against Severus' bare shoulder, and shook his head a little from side to side.

"Let me thank you for suffering for me," he murmured, blushing even as he said the words. "Don't send me away."

Severus pushed gently at Harry's shoulders, until he could look at the boy's face.

"Potter, you haven't the slightest idea what you are playing with," he said, trying to sound stern – dismissive – _something_. The Gryffindor dropped his eyes, and Severus had the distinct feeling that they were traveling once again over his scars, finding who knew what meaning in them. He put one hand over Severus' heart, where there were no scars to speak of – nothing had yet pierced him there – and said,

"I'm not playing."

"No idea at all," Severus said again. But, when Harry's fingers wandered across the light dusting of dark hairs on his chest and onto the bony ridge of his clavicle, he let them. And he let them trace the starbursts down onto his arm, let them slide over and around his most terrible scar, the Morsemordre, which never would fade to white as long as he lived. And he let Harry's lips follow the path his hands had gone, until, at last, they too reached the dark mark.

***

Harry could hardly believe that he was being so daring. The Potions master's skin, so forbidden, passed under his hands without punishment. He felt like he was in a dream, the unreality of the moment was so absolute. Here he was, sitting astride Snape's lap, tracing the past on his skin, and nothing had happened to him. Severus was just watching him in silence, his eyebrows drawn together in consternation, or pain, or confusion, or something else entirely that Harry had never encountered before. No hand clamped around his wrist to pull him away. No force toppled him from the bed.

Yes, it must be a dream, Harry thought, as he pressed his lips to Severus' chest, his throat, his shoulder, repeating the path of his fingers. He pulled Severus' forearm up to his lips last of all, kissing the skeletal sneer that rested there, snake protruding grotesquely from the mouth. Slowly, Harry let Severus' arm fall, and looked down at the slender, pale body beneath him. So fragile, when it was exposed like this. And yet, frightening, too.

"Potter," Severus said again, and Harry looked up with automatic obedience. "Come here."


End file.
